


The Great Boyfriend Bake-Off

by anoncitomikolino, bitterleafs, epistemology, lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK), Morimaitar, solomonara, stevieraebarnes, stribird (timidGoddess)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Capes, Bad Flirting, Bad Puns, Denial of Feelings, Fanart, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Illustrations, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, One-Sided RoyDick, Strangers to Lovers, do not read while hungry, emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoncitomikolino/pseuds/anoncitomikolino, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterleafs/pseuds/bitterleafs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/epistemology/pseuds/epistemology, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/solomonara/pseuds/solomonara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevieraebarnes/pseuds/stevieraebarnes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidGoddess/pseuds/stribird
Summary: RECIPE FOR DISASTERIngredients:- 1 resentful YouTube Personality- 1 ex-acrobat with an unrequited crush- 5-6 cups chopped seasonal vegetables- 3 tbsp saltDirections:Mix all ingredients in a medium-sized pot. Let simmer until everything boils over.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Roy Harper, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Jason Todd
Comments: 45
Kudos: 291
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/gifts), [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



> For Penta and Empires. It's the yeast we could do.

Chapter by [anoncitomikolino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoncitomikolino), [LostandLonelyBirds(RUNNFROMTHEAK)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/LostandLonelyBirds)

Dick is tired. The bone-deep, headache-creating kind of tiredness that’s becoming more and more common as more and _more_ people join his classes. It’s a good thing, his bank account says. It’s a bad thing, his poor abused muscles say. There are only so many times a guy can demonstrate complex routines on the mat without tiring, and sad as it is, he’s lost a bit of his endless energy that had driven Bruce and Alfred up the wall. And even though he loves people, the yoga moms with kids in his classes that stay to “observe” really set him on edge.

He’s good. He’s one of the _best_ , if he’s perfectly honest—has the shiny medals to prove it and all that—but he’s never liked the way people look at him. Like he’s public property. Part of being the adoptive son of Bruce Wayne, he supposes, but it still sucks.

“Hey Dick!” Roy greets him with a friendly smile, menu in hand as Dick takes his seat. His voice is like a balm for his tired soul; his bright eyes a rush of endorphins.

Dick flushes a light pink and returns the smile with one of his own. “Hey,” he says.

He scoots his chair into the table, wincing as his hip protests a bit at the motion. Maybe he should have stretched longer, but his 8 o’clock had arrived early, and he’d had a few new things he’d wanted to work on. Oh well. He can always put ice on it when he gets home, maybe wrangle one of those special injury shakes Alfred keeps stocked for him and Damian. Alfie’s a blessing, the Wayne family’s own Guardian Angel with a British accent.

Roy’s eyes drop to his waist, tracing the injury covered by the dress shirt and suit jacket with a frown.

“Rough day at work?” he asks.

Dick huffs out a laugh.

“The preteens put me through the wringer. My other classes involved a _lot_ more supervision, I can tell you that.”

Roy folds the menu on the table carefully, eyes shining with concern.

“You sure you shouldn’t be at home resting? I don’t need you injured when I’ll win my bet with Donna if you can hold out another two weeks.”

Dick sends him a look.

“Aaaand I would miss my favorite dinner bro, of course.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“You only like me for the money.”

Roy shrugs, smirk pulling at his lips.

“That and your pretty face, friendo. Your sense of humor definitely needs an upgrade though. Something less teenage sidekick of dark and brooding hero, and more…”

“Wally?”

“I was thinking more _me_ , but sure. I see who your favorite redhead _really_ is.”

Dick chuckles.

“We all know that Rupert Grint is my _real_ favorite redhead. C’mon.”

“I was always more of a Dan Rad man myself.”

Dick doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah, but we’re going by redheads.”

Roy shakes his head.

“Bonnie Wright is right _there_.”

Dick smirks, watching the horror fill Roy’s eyes as he realizes what he’s just said.

“Are you saying she’s the _right_ choice?”

“No. You’re fired. Get out. Go to pun jail. That was _awful_.”

Dick smirks, snatching the menu from Roy to take a glance at the menu.

“No need, Dickie. Already ordered what you _always_ get when we go to an Italian restaurant.”

Dick peeks at him.

“Fettuccine Alfredo with extra chicken and—”

“—and as much parmesan cheese as they will reasonably allow you to have. Along with a glass of rosé to chase it down.” Roy rolls his eyes. “You act like I haven’t watched you scarf that combo down at _least_ a dozen times.”

Dick feels his cheeks darken. “What can I say. I know what I like.”

Roy glances away. “Yep,” he says. “That you do…”

It’s awkward, Roy’s cadence just a tad bit off, but Dick dismisses it easily. He’s tired, which gives him a tendency to read into things unnecessarily, and the swift delivery of the food only pushes the sentiments to the back of his head.

He smiles at the waiter as his plate is deposited in front of him, pleased by the mountain of cheese atop the chicken breasts. It smells divine, and he hardly manages a polite _thank you_ to the waiter before he’s cutting up the chicken and spinning the fettuccine on his fork.

Dick melts at the taste, cheese and sauce and chicken and pasta a beautiful blend of harmonious food on his tongue. It’s orgasmic practically, almost as good as Alfred’s.

“You know,” Roy says, fork carefully balancing a small scoop of spaghetti noodles and sauce. “Jason’s spaghetti recipe is a lot better than the one here. His alfredo’s pretty good too.”

Dick frowns, eyebrows pinched as he takes in his friend, his own food nearly forgotten. Roy sips at the beer he’d obtained at some point when Dick hadn’t looked, calm and cool as water.

“Jason Todd? Isn’t that the guy you work for?”

He doesn’t know a whole lot about Jason Todd, not truly. He’s a friend of a friend, kind of. Donna and Zee both know him, and Roy works for him, but Dick’s never met him. He knows what he looks like from clips of Zee’s show, and pictures on Roy’s social media, but not much beyond that.

“I work _with_ him,” Roy replies, taking another sip. “He can’t have a cooking channel without a camera man. Plus, I get all the leftovers, and they’re the best I’ve ever had.”

Dick gives him a pointed look.

“Better than _Alfred’s_?”

Roy shrugs.

“Good as, maybe better. I haven’t had a whole lot of Alfred’s cooking the way I’ve had Jason’s. Gotta love a man that can cook.”

Dick freezes, the implication of those words striking with all the force of a car crash. Could Roy have _feelings_ for Jason, perhaps? Is that his type? Good at cooking? Is that what it takes to impress him? Is that—

“I’m good at cooking,” Dick blurts out, a bit louder than he means to. He flushes as a few tables send him curious looks. Roy’s eyes aren’t easy to read, curious as they linger on him. “I…do it all the time.”

Roy cocks an eyebrow.

“You do?”

 _Dick, shut up_ , hisses a voice that sounds suspiciously like Donna’s.

Dick does not shut up.

“I’m actually _great_ at cooking! Alfred taught me a lot in the Manor’s kitchens. I…cooked a _lot_ growing up. Love it. Dick Ramsey is I, lover of cooking things and kitchens.”

Someone shoot him. Put him out of his misery, because he’s pretty sure the embarrassment is going to kill him anyway.

It’s all Wally’s fault, he’s sure. He’s been hanging out with him _far_ too much lately. Next thing you know he’ll be eating ten hot dogs in one sitting with a side helping of chili and have room for dessert. Even with the whole acrobat upbringing, his metabolism is not good enough to burn that. Not while maintaining his girlish figure, as Donna would say.

“Huh,” Roy says, in a tone Dick can’t decipher. “That’s cool.”

“Yep. Very, uh, cool.”

Dick clears his throat uncomfortably, taking another measured bite of his pasta. It’s warm, but there’s a bitter aftertaste, most assuredly imagined.

“So,” he starts with a fake smile, “seen any good movies lately?”

*** 

“So let me get this straight,” Donna says, voice glimmering with amusement through the speakers of his car. Roy is already free from his line of sight. “You, Boy Blunder, he who was banned from the kitchens of all houses and places you’ve frequented, told Roy that you’re good at cooking?”

Dick sighs.

“No. Yes. Maybe. A _little_ …”

“This is delicious,” she giggles, and he knows she’s probably lounging around with a glass of wine as she mocks his misfortunes. She’s lucky he loves her. It’s not just anyone he’ll let ruthlessly take pleasure in private information, such as his thus far unrequited crush on one Roy Harper (something he’s sure will change, if he can stop being a human disaster and actually use his words) and that Never Again To Be Mentioned time he blacked out at a party and made out with one of Bruce’s ex-boyfriends (but hey, the guy knew how to kiss, he’ll give Bruce that). “Zee’s going to eat this up, unlike your cooking, which, objectively, deserves a biohazard warning and poison control visit.”

“Hey,” he protests, “I’m not _that_ bad.”

“You unironically made green eggs and green ham,” she deadpans. “I didn’t even know eggs could smell like a rotting corpse, and somehow you managed that.”

He pouts at her, forgetting for a moment she can’t see it. _Bitch_.

“There was that Thanksgiving dinner I made!”

“You mean the Thanksgiving dinner where the Kents invited us over out of pity because you set your apartment on fire when you somehow forgot about the turkey in your oven until it literally burned to a crisp?”

“That doesn’t count,” he says, nearly missing his turn when she snorts, rolling her eyes hard enough for him to feel it from across town. “How was I supposed to know you have to add stuff to it while it’s in the oven?”

“Google, the recipe you ignored, common sense. Need I go on?”

“Recipes are for quitters.”

“No,” she counters, that infuriating trickle of amusement still coloring her tone, “they’re for people who don’t know to baste a turkey so it doesn’t catch fire and somehow forget about it even when the smell of burning turkey fills the entire apartment.”

He pouts, not that she can see it.

“I’m offended. And what was I supposed to say? I want Roy’s attention, and of course _Jason Todd_ chef extraordinaire had it. A little white lie never hurt anyone.”

“That’s not a white lie, you big dummy. That’s like, as big a lie as you can get.”

“I can learn,” he protests. “I mean, I’m a quick study, and I wasn’t half bad at chemistry in high school. How hard can it be?”

Donna outright guffaws at that; doubled over and choking over the line on her amusement.

“Honey, I love you. Very dearly. But this venture isn’t one that’s going to bear fruit. Besides, don’t you want Roy to like you for _you_? Because my best friend is pretty amazing, even if he can’t boil water without potentially starting a fire.”

Dick groans, shifting his car into park and staring up at his apartment in despair. His head makes a dull _thud_ as it lands on his steering wheel; he can already feel the fabric leaving an imprint on his skin, not that he has the energy or mind to care.

“Why did I say I can cook, Donna? _Why_?!”

“Because you have no brain to mouth filter and a desperate need for affection probably rooted in a lack of paternal acknowledgment?” she offers warmly.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Dr. Troy is in the house.”

Donna’s answering laugh tinkles, like a bell almost.

“You’re damn right I am. Someone has to look out for you, twin of mine. Beauty is a burden not meant to be shared by one.”

Dick snorts.

“I’m still the prettier one.”

“That, my wonderful best friend, is _entirely_ up for debate.”

He takes her off Bluetooth and rests the phone between his cheek and shoulder grabbing his keys and clicking the key fob twice to lock the doors.

“I’m almost entirely sure that we had this argument two years ago and I _won_ it two years ago. Phone number competition, remember?”

“Oh _whatever_ you only got one more number than me, and that shouldn’t have even counted.”

The keys jingle as he pulls them out of his ignition, almost merry as he wriggles open the old lock on his front door and pushes it open.

“Someone’s a sore loser,” he sings, slamming the door behind him with his foot and kicking the shoes off without care for where they land.

His apartment, surprisingly, isn’t a mess, because he’d cleaned it this weekend when Donna had invited herself over with a twelve-pack and a stack of horror movies.

Donna huffs over the line, but it’s still done with humor.

“Well, maybe we’ll have a rematch next time we go out. Give me thirty minutes and that one skirt I’ve been saving for a special occasion and everyone will be putty in my hands.”

“I’m _so_ sure.”

But even their banter doesn’t fully distract him from this new issue born entirely out of his own stupidity. He’s so fucked. Completely fucked.

“Doooooon,” he whines, uncaring of how petulant he sounds over the phone. It’s not like she’s going to judge him; they’ve seen each other do too much stupid shit for that. “What am I going to _do_?”

“Learn to cook?” there’s no way she says it with a straight face; Dick knows that on a soul-deep level. She’s laughing at his expense yet again, downright _chortling_ internally. He just _knows_ it.

“We just went over all the reasons why I should never be allowed in a kitchen again, and your suggestion is I learn to _cook_?”

“It’s not like you have any better ideas, sir-burns-a-lot. You could just admit to Roy that you suck at cooking. Lies aren’t exactly the best foundation for a relationship to be built on.”

Dick groans, throwing himself on the couch face first. His words come out muffled. “Nobody likes a liar though. Don, I want Roy to like me.”

“I can’t hear you through all the self-pity. I would, in fact, bet money that you’re on your couch right now. Probably with your shoes on.”

Dick glares at the phone. “My shoes are _off_ , thank you.”

A snort.

“That’s a first.” She pauses for a moment, contemplating, before she speaks again. “On a more serious note, I don’t think being able to cook would magically make Roy fall for you. He hangs out with you for you, silly. Not because of some lie about your nonexistent talent in the culinary realm.”

“Yes, he likes me as a _friend_. I want to be more than friends, Don. I want him to like me.”

She sighs. “If he likes you, it should be for you. Not some fancy dish you magically didn’t burn.”

Someone liking him for him…what a novel concept.

He’s always known his allure, ever since he hit puberty. Being Bruce’s adopted son means being in the spotlight and being subject to the admiration and scrutiny of Gotham’s elite. Dick’s looks have always been useful for getting a date or two, but the backing of Wayne money prevents building meaningful connections. Some people just want the name or the wealth. Some want to say they seduced Richard Grayson or want a path to Bruce through him. Part of what he likes so much about Roy is Roy _doesn’t_ care.

He doesn’t give a shit who Dick’s adoptive father is, or how much money he has in a savings account he never touches. He doesn’t care about reputation or appearances or anything Dick can offer outside of company. Friendship.

Dick likes that. He likes that a lot.

Roy’s own prettiness only built upon that attraction, especially when combined with his confidence and light-hearted personality. Dick likes his jokes, likes having someone he can just _be_ with. It’s comforting and simple, like being with Donna or Wally.

But, Roy not being interested in his money or his family makes it difficult to determine what he _could_ be interested in. Still, Dick doubts Roy finds liars very attractive. Hell. Dick’s not fond of lying, even if Roy _did_ find it attractive.

“Dick, you still there?”

He zones back in as Donna’s voice cuts into the silence, phone tight in his grip.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I am. I don’t have many choices here.”

Out of the possibilities in front of him, he knows he can’t tell Roy he actually can’t cook, because that would be a confession of being a panic liar and also bring about the awkward conversation of Dick’s crush (which must be avoided at all costs until he’s ready and sure Roy won’t immediately reject him).

“Whose fault is that?”

“I plead the fifth,” he mutters.

He’s rewarded with a snort.

“Why don’t you ask someone like Jason to teach you? Someone prepared to deal with your…penchant for domestic arson.”

Dick sighs.

“I guess that’s not the _worst_ idea. Better than anything else we’ve come up with, at least.”

Donna laughs again.

“Then my work here is done. I’ve got to go but have fun sleuthing like I know you’re about to—”

“—am _not—”_

“—love you!”

She hangs up before he can further deny her accusations or return the sentiment, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s sure she knows what he’d meant to say even without it being spoken.

First things first, he might as well follow his curiosity and do some social-sleuthing on Mr. Fantastic, who Roy is _oh-so_ fond of.

A quick Google search shows his YouTube channel and social networks, each meticulously organized and filled with pictures of yummy looking dishes. Some look as complex as the foods Alfred serves at Galas, or important dinners, and he scrolls through the feed absentmindedly, careful to not like any of them.

Jason has one account on Instagram for himself and one for his cooking. Dick bites his lip, hovering over the personal profile for a moment. Curiosity wins out, so he clicks, and is surprised to see it’s not private.

If there’s one thing to be said about Jason Todd, it’s that he’s gorgeous. His muscles look like they’ve been sculpted from marble, defined, and toned without entering the realm of unnecessarily bulky. His eyes are a deep ocean blue containing a concealed amusement, if not outright humor. He only smiles in pics with various friends—he recognizes Zee in a few, stage makeup and fishnets distinctly her with Jason dressed similarly and smiling wide, and Roy in others, one arm always persistently over Jason’s shoulder—but otherwise looks away from the camera or smirks.

He’s…attractive, so Dick can _definitely_ see the appeal.

Dick clicks out with a huff.

He’s not willing to give up on Roy yet, since he’s barely begun attempting to try, and he doesn’t know for certain that _Jason Todd_ returns Roy’s feelings. There are a few pictures of them together, but nothing about the framing is overly romantic, and their body language doesn’t indicate a layer beyond platonic fondness.

Which means Dick just has to win Roy over. And the way to man’s heart is through his stomach, and all that.

Step one: learning to cook.

Jason’s social media shows a wide variety of foods spanning across countries and time periods, which does nothing to narrow down what exactly Dick should do to learn, or what foods Roy would like prepared.

Dick gnaws at his lip again, teasing it between teeth and ignoring the sting.

Maybe…just _maybe_ he could ask Jason to teach him when Roy isn’t around to witness it and Donna isn’t around to laugh. Who better to learn from than the master, after all? Jason would know what Roy likes and doesn’t, and he’d probably be able to save the kitchen from Dick’s penchant for accidents that may or may not cause bodily harm.

He goes back to Jason’s personal profile and clicks the _message_ button before he can talk himself out of it. His thumbs fly across the keyboard, writing whatever comes to mind that _hopefully_ doesn’t sound too desperate.

He reads over the message to check for errors and finds several that make him cringe. _Autocorrect_ , he thinks, _is the actual fucking worst._ After said corrections, the message reads like less of an anxiety-ridden confession to a Catholic cook, and more like a message from a normal, functioning adult.

He sends it without another glance, and throws himself back on the couch to sleep, making sure his phone is off. He can deal with existing later, as in _not now_. He has some second-hand embarrassment to vividly experience from that lunch not-date, after all, because his stupid brain hates him.

***

The response doesn’t come until the next morning. 

_I’m not giving lessons right now. Sorry._

Dick stares at his phone and sighs. The message is curt and to-the-point, with no room for negotiation. Immediately he hates himself for being so stupid as to think that a YouTube star like _Jason Todd_ would make time for him, even if Dick is related to Bruce Wayne. 

Oh. Maybe that’s his way in. He could write and say, _hi yes I am actually the sort-of son of Bruce Wayne and have several thousand followers myself. If you take me on I could give you good exposure._

Dick sighs again and throws his phone on his bed. As if. Donna would _kill_ him if she found out he was asking an artist—are chefs artists?—to do something in exchange for _exposure._ Choosing beggar, much? 

Finally, he writes a quick message back and hits send. Then he looks at the message and cringes. 

_Ha ha that’s okay. Just thought I’d ask. Your food looks really good. Yum!_

Oh god. Him and his stupid words. This is exactly the kind of thing that got him into trouble in the first place. 

Dick is seriously considering his social media accounts from existence when he gets the notification that someone has DM’d him back. It’s Jason. Just one word: _Thanks._

 _Asshole,_ Dick thinks instinctively. Although, on second thought, Jason has every reason not to like Dick. Asking dumb questions, saying dumb things, almost using the _exposure_ word…

 _Anyway,_ Dick writes quickly, because he hates the thought of people disliking him, especially when said person is friends with Roy, _Sorry to bother you. Hope you have a nice day!_

 _Thanks,_ writes Jason. 

Dick groans and buries his heating face in his hands. A mess. The whole thing is a mess. And now he’s gone and pissed off someone close to Roy, the only person who could maybe make him not a liar. 

Well. Not the _only_ person. 

An hour later and Dick is in the dining room of the manor, following Alfred as the butler dusts off the wooden surfaces. 

“Please, Alfie,” he says. “You’re the best chef I know. I’ve got to learn. I _want_ to learn.”

Alfred takes a deep breath as he adjusts the position of the candelabra in the center of the dining table. “Master Richard, I have tried to instruct you many times. I would prefer if you did _not_ destroy my kitchen once again.”

“This is different,” Dick replies. 

“Unless you explain to me how this time is different, I must assume that it is the same.” 

As if Dick could tell Alfred about his crush on Roy. It isn’t that the butler is trustworthy—quite the contrary, really—but he is simply too wise. Dick can picture his advice already: _Just tell the young man the truth, Master Richard. Surely he will see you for the wonderful individual you are, even if you did use salt instead of sugar._

“I can’t,” Dick says finally.

Alfred sighs. “And it is on that note, Master Richard, that I must confess that I cannot either. Master Bruce is hosting a charity event next Saturday, and as the sole caretaker of this household, I simply do not have the time. My most sincere apologies.” 

“But–”

“Might I suggest finding a different culinary expert? I can recommend several if you wish.” 

Dick thinks about _Jason Todd_ and his face darkens in embarrassment. “I already tried,” he mutters. “Didn’t work.” 

“May I inquire as to who you spoke to?” asks Alfred. “Perhaps I can suggest someone similar.”

“His name’s Jason Todd. Runs a YouTube channel.” 

“Jason Todd?” Alfred’s thin lips pull into a smile. “How extraordinary. I always knew the young man would make a name for himself.” 

Dick blinks. “Wait, you _know_ him?” he asks, and Alfred chuckles quietly.

“Master Richard, I helped teach him. He used to work for Master Bruce’s caterer. Charming young man.” 

_Sure didn’t seem that way,_ Dick thinks, before he remembers that it’s his fault Jason doesn’t like him. But maybe, just maybe, that could change. 

“Can you ask him?” Dick blurts out. 

Alfred looks at him, surprised. 

“Can you ask him to teach me?” Dick says again. 

“Pardon my confusion, Master Richard, but did you not just say that he turned you down?” 

“Yeah, but he turned _me_ down. He wouldn’t say no to you. I know he wouldn’t. No one can.” Dick leans forward and bats his eyelashes, giving the butler a childish grin. “Pretty please, Alfie? For me?” 

Alfred sighs once more. “I assume you are not implying that I ask him to work for free?” 

“Of course not,” Dick says quickly. “I’ll pay him as much as he wants. He can set the price.” 

A moment passes. Dick holds his breath, then releases it at once when Alfred nods. 

“A compromise, Master Richard,” the butler says. “You may tell him that I recommended you as a student. Should he refuse, you will not push him any further. Understood?” 

A partial victory, but a victory nonetheless. Grinning once more, Dick pulls the butler into his arms and squeezes. “Thank you thank you thank you,” he says, releasing him. “I owe you big time.” 

“I believe this is the hundredth ‘big time’ you owe me,” Alfred replies with a smile. 

Alfie the guardian angel, indeed. 

Saluting, Dick dashes out of the dining room, already pulling his phone out from his pocket. _Can we talk?_ he asks Donna. He runs into his old bedroom and pulls the door shut behind him. _Important development._

_I’m facetiming Zee rn._

Of course she is. They’re probably talking about him, no doubt. _Let me join,_ he writes. _She’ll be interested too._

_Okay. One sec._

Before long he’s looking into the eager faces of his friends. Donna is looking perfect as always, and Zee is in her stage makeup and outfit that always enhances her own gorgeous features. 

“Hey guys,” he says. “Guess what?” 

“You’re going on a date with Roy,” Zee says, and Donna giggles. 

“You traitor!” Dick hisses at her, but smiles nonetheless. 

“Look, honey. I didn’t tell her a thing. I swear,” Donna says. 

Zee nods. “It’s true. I’ve just got that magic touch when it comes to crushes.”

She’s got a magic touch when it comes to a lot of things. That’s why her show is so popular. She’s practically a magician Jimmy Kimmel. 

“Whatever,” Dick says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve got an update on the whole ‘learn to cook’ situation.” 

“You’re giving up?” Donna asks, then throws her head back in a sonorous laugh. “I’m kidding, love. I’m kidding. What?” 

Dick grins. “Alfred knows Jason Todd.” 

“Jason Todd?” Zee asks. “As in, the chef who films in my studio? You’re going on a date with him?”

“No!” Dick says quickly. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even like me that much, but—”

Donna’s laugh cuts him off. “Dick, you wonderful human, how could anyone on the gods’ green earth _not_ like you?” 

_“But,”_ Dick says again, glaring, “Alfred said I could name-drop him to get Jason to teach me how to cook.” 

Now both of them are laughing. Dick waits a moment, reddening. Finally, he says, “Alright. We all get it. I can’t cook. Ha ha ha.”

Zee snorts. _“_ ‘Can’t cook’ is an understatement.” 

“Oh believe me,” Donna says, eyes twinkling, “We talked all about it yesterday.” 

“Look. I’m trying to learn,” he says. “That’s what’s important. And as I get a little better the lie gets a little smaller. It’ll be white again, right Donna Dearest?” 

“I really do believe in you, Boy Wonder. You’re a fool, but I believe in you.” 

Dick gives her his brightest smile. “Besides,” he says. “It’s just a few recipes. How hard can it be?” 


	2. Chapter 2

Jason stares down at the phone in his hands for a solid five seconds before hitting the power button and setting it on the kitchen counter. Then, for extra measure, he turns his entire body away and gets started on his eggs, not looking back. Breakfast should take precedence over a simple text from Dick Grayson, of all people.

Crack eggs. Whisk. Pour into pan. Cook on low heat. 

Turning Dick down didn’t do much good, but Jason should have expected that. The guy’s just some rich floozy who threw away thousands of dollars at the drop of a hat for cooking lessons. And for reasons he refuses to disclose. It all makes Jason very uneasy.

Because that is the only reason Jason said no. Something about the whole thing makes him uneasy, and Dick Grayson’s weirdly pushy attitude only confirms that this is not the kind of guy Jason should be hanging around. He’s not the kind of person Jason wants to hang around. 

He sighs and opens his phone again to stare at the text. 

_Could you please reconsider? Alfred personally recommended you actually._

The message is vague, and Jason almost considers deleting it. Dick has to have some boundaries, even if Jason’s limited memories of him paint an unflattering picture, but the bare mention of Alfred stops him in his tracks.

Jason remembers Alfred fondly, the time he studied under him having produced some of his best memories. Alfred was a good chef and an even better mentor, gentle yet demanding, expecting only the best while never pushing too far. A little bit like a father—or grandfather, in any case—but Jason tries not to dwell on that. He didn’t stay long. After all, it was only supposed to be a one time gig, some extra help for one of the biggest “Wayne galas” of the year. But one time turned into lesson after extra lesson, until Jason almost felt comfortable enough to stay under his tutelage. But Alfred didn’t need a mentee, and Jason needed to move on. 

Now, staring down at the message from Dick, the proof that Alfred still thinks highly of him, Jason wishes he’d kept in touch.

He finishes the eggs. The trick to good scrambled eggs is simply a little patience. Turn the burner on too high, and they cook too fast and aren’t that delicious fluffy texture that Jason loves. But patience is the mark of a true chef, something Alfred had always told him. You have to be willing to wait things out, to spend time on the tedious actions and the waiting around, spatula in hand, for your eggs to start to heat up.

He doesn’t have to call Alfred. He doesn’t have to accept Dick’s offer. But there’s an inexplicable urge, a small pull towards familiarity and a time in his life that was saturated in joy. 

Jason lets the dishes soak—he’ll do them later—and hits the call button.

Time to turn up the metaphorical burner.

Alfred answers on the sixth ring, not that Jason was counting. He’s a busy man, running Wayne Manor with the help of a very small staff, Jason reminds himself. He’s not purposefully ignoring the call. Probably.

“Mister Todd. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Jason finds he can breathe again. The pleasant lilt to Alfred’s voice relaxes him, reminds him that this is not a man to hold grudges or judge unnecessarily. And Alfred doesn’t know everything that’s running through Jason’s mind, from the half-baked attempts to explain away his lack of communication to all the disparaging thoughts he has of his grandson.

“Hey, Alfred. Thanks for—It’s good to talk to you.” Jason settles onto the couch, leaning his elbows onto his knees. His eyes wander over the various magazines on the coffee table, all advertising recipes and cooking lessons. One of them features Jason, a small time journal that wanted to promote up and coming “stars” in the food industry. The interview had been shortly after his little stint on Zatanna’s show, which only proved that she had been right when she’d told him it would be good press. 

“I don’t want to presume why you are finally calling me,” he says, and Jason winces at that, “but I suspect I know why, and it is good to hear from you, nonetheless.”

“Yeah, so, um. You obviously know about Dick and the job offer and all that.” He waves his hand absentmindedly.

“I am, as you might say, ‘in the know.’ He came to me much like you are now.”

“Right,” Jason says slowly. “So, I turned him down originally, but he asked again and said that you personally recommended me, so. I guess I just wanted to ask your opinion on what I should do.”

“I would have thought that was obvious, Mister Todd,” Alfred says.

And he’s right. It is obvious. Jason knows the answer, and he has practically already made up his mind by now, but there is something to the idea of confirmation, someone telling him he’s making the right decision and not throwing away his sanity for nothing.

Jason nods, leaning back into the couch cushions, wishing he could just fall through. There’s a measure of silence before he remembers that Alfred can’t see him. “Yeah, Alfie. I know. I just need to hear it from you, I guess.”

There’s another pause, and this time, Jason can imagine Alfred in the manor kitchen, smiling warmly at him from across the island. “You are a talented young man, Mister Todd, and I think it would be wise not to let such an opportunity pass you by. I did recommend you, after all, and I stand by my decision.”

If Jason could see Alfred’s face, he’s sure he would fall into pieces. “Thanks, Alfie,” is all he manages to get out.

“And perhaps, if you are spending time with Master Richard, I might be persuaded to stop by.”

“I'd love that.” Jason can’t stop the grin that forms on his face.

Talking with Alfred calms him, he notices. The man has always had that effect on people, Jason in particular, and the way he never pushes, never offers anything but the best advice is a comfort beyond words.

Jason hangs up, a weight lifted off his chest until he sees the text again. But, mind made up, he responds. 

***

He sees Alfred exactly one week later, when he lets him into Wayne Manor, the designated spot for their first lesson. Jason is early, and Dick has yet to arrive, which he takes as his chance to explore the kitchen again.

It’s large, spacious in a way Jason’s apartment is not, with an island in the middle creating a wide L-shape. The counters are something nicer than Jason has ever seen anywhere else—quartz, he remembers Alfred saying—and the cabinets are stocked with an array of shiny pots and pans that are probably all out of his price range.

He takes a moment to admire the lavish practicality of it all, familiarizing himself with the workspace that he’ll be borrowing for as long as Dick wants him. It’s been years since he was last here, and there have been some subtle renovations, from what he can recall in his maybe-not-so-trustworthy memory. A segment of the countertop is now completely wooden, turned into a butcher’s block, and there is a whole new row of cabinets that Jason’s pretty sure were not there before. He likes it there, in the kitchen at least, and could see himself staying long term, provided he didn’t have to walk through opulently decorated halls to reach it.

Dick arrives late, and when he finally shows, it’s with scattered brain and a flurry of hasty apologies. Jason frowns, but says nothing. Dick almost certainly notices his displeasure.

“So what are we starting with?” he asks as soon as he’s settled in the kitchen and the bag he brought with him was tossed onto a chair where it was subsequently removed by Alfred. He’s excited, Jason can tell, all over-eager puppy eyes and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

In response, Jason slides the large paper bag he brought in front of them. Then he pulls out bag after bag of fresh vegetables, bought this morning before he left. Dick had already promised to reimburse him for anything he needed for the lesson, and Jason planned to make him do the shopping in the future. “We’ll start by practicing your cutting technique.”

“Cutting technique?” Dick repeats as his face falls.

“Yep. If you want to make anything at all, you gotta start with the basics, and knowing how to chop quickly and precisely will be a big help. Saves time, you know?”

Dick nods, the light returning to his eyes. It’s a tad annoying how enthusiastic he seems, especially when Jason knows he’ll lose all that precious enthusiasm by the end of the first lesson. It takes a certain kind of person, someone with _patience_ , which Jason guesses Dick doesn’t have a lick of.

Jason doesn’t know if Dick remembers him at all, but he remembers Dick, and his memories do not paint the most flattering picture. Jason’s first job with Alfred had been at the manor, cooking for and serving all those rich, entitled assholes that have never known the experience of working for and earning everything you got in life. Dick was one such asshole, whom Jason had the misfortune of running into right as he was complaining into his two thousand dollar phone about how _dull_ the party was, and how much he’d rather be _with you right now, Babs._ A charity function, and he wanted to blow it off to go sleep with his girlfriend or whoever. 

It’s sickening, Jason thinks. _Asshole,_ he accuses, even while handing him the correct knife and a bundle of freshly washed celery.

“There’s a difference between chopping, dicing, and mincing, for example. Different types of cuts mean different techniques,” he instructs. Dick is looking at him expectantly, which Jason suddenly finds difficult to ignore. This isn’t his first time teaching, but a twinge of nervousness shoots through him. He powers on, ignoring it. “That also means different knives. You’re gonna want to use a straight edge knife for this.”

Dick holds up his knife proudly, and Jason immediately guides his wrist back down. “Don’t do that,” he says, and Dick has the decency to look ashamed. He opens his mouth to say something, but Jason cuts him off.

“Today, you’re going to practice chopping until you can do it in your sleep. I’ve got a shit ton of vegetables, and I want you to practice until you can do it right and you can do it fast. I’ll go with you at first so you can watch my technique to make sure you’re doing it correctly, okay?” 

He procures two cutting boards from where he’d found them earlier, giving one to Dick and keeping the other for himself. Dick raises his hand, a quirky smile on his face that sends a fresh wave of disdain through Jason.

“Yes?” he asks, a little dramatically, but Dick started it with the hand raising and all.

“Is this _all_ we’re doing today?”

Jason expected the question, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating to hear. “Yes.” Dick looks like he wants to protest, so Jason holds up a hand to stop him. “This is important, and you need to learn this first before you can do anything else. If you can’t do this, then I can’t teach you.”

There’s no room for negotiation in his statement, and Dick clearly catches onto that, as is evidenced by his pout, immediately followed by a determined set to his jaw.

Jason picks up his own knife, and Dick follows suit. Together, they begin.

He cuts with Dick for the first thirty minutes, half of that time spent explaining all the little details that Dick keeps getting wrong and correcting his form.

“Your grip is too tense.” He places his hand over Dick’s to slide it into a better position. “Try and keep it more relaxed.”

“I’m trying, but this is somehow significantly harder than gymnastics!” he complains.

Jason looks up from his celery. “Gymnastics?”

“Yeah. I’m a gymnast.”

“Like, for real?” Jason didn’t think people actually _were_ gymnasts, besides maybe those girls in the Summer Olympics.

“Yep. I teach kids’ classes at the gym downtown, plus I perform on the side sometimes.” He doesn’t stop chopping while he talks, but Jason notices that he slows down significantly, having to divide his attention between his words and keeping the knife away from his fingers.

“You have a job?” Jason asks, and then immediately regrets it. _Idiot. You don’t go asking people that, even rich assholes like Grayson._

And Dick does look a little taken aback. He even stops his work for a moment before readjusting the knife and beginning again. “Yeah, of course I have a job. I don’t live here anymore, and while Bruce has offered to take care of everything for me many times, I kinda like the idea of doing things myself.”

His face reddens, because Jason has obviously made him uncomfortable, and damn if Jason's own face doesn’t feel uncomfortably hot too. At least one of his assumptions was wrong, and he doesn’t particularly like the way in which he’d gotten confirmation.

“That’s cool,” he says, if only to alleviate some of the tension. It doesn’t help.

They continue their work, Jason eventually setting down his own knife to watch Dick from over his laptop. No use letting some perfectly good time go to waste, and he has plenty to do in the meantime. Recipes he wants to look over, questions from Roy about edits to his latest video, comments to respond to.

Dick finishes the celery, and they move onto carrots. Jason cuts with him in the beginning, then he checks his email. Dick finishes the carrots, and Jason gives him tomatoes. The cycle continues for the rest of the afternoon.

At around the two hour mark, Dick begins to get antsy. He’s a talker, and so far Jason has shut down most of his overenthusiastic attempts at conversation with curt answers to each question until Dick got the hint. But now Dick’s originally chipper attitude has been replaced by something sour, written in his whole body and impossible to ignore. He’s gotten faster since the beginning, but each stroke of the knife comes down hard on the cutting board, and that combined with the dark look on his face leaves the distinct impression of an ominous Disney villain. 

“What’d that zucchini ever do to you?”

Dick looks up, startled out his chopping trance. “Nothing, I—I’m almost done with the zucchini actually. Do I have to keep cutting things after this?”

“You still have to do the cucumbers.”

Dick huffs. “Fine. But this better be worth it. We better cook something next time.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Jason reminds him, and Dick rolls his eyes.

“A stupid one,” he mumbles under his breath. Jason chuckles, and when Dick glances up in surprise, he quickly readjusts his face.

“Keep cutting, and it’ll go faster.”

“I’m trying, but I’m not as fast as you!”

“Then practice.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Dick whines. “That’s what I’ve been doing all afternoon!”

“And yet you’re still slow.” 

He groans, and Jason worries he’s about to have a tantrum on his hands, but then Dick closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them, he looks calmer. Picking up the knife, he begins again.

Jason watches. Dick’s technique is better now, as is his speed, and he handles the knife with grace. Figures. Perfect, pretty rich boy who can probably do anything and in no time will pass Jason up and take everything he’s ever worked for.

Jason never went to culinary school, but he can guess what it’s like. Classrooms full of elites who bought their way in, and a few talented scholarship students trying their best to succeed. And there would always be someone like Dick, like _Grayson,_ who can do anything and everything without help from anyone, but who still gets people begging to hold his hand every step of the way, because he’s just so _perfect._

And now it’s Jason’s job to teach him. Jason’s job to make him even more perfect than he already is, and then set him loose so the whole world can see this exquisite person of unparalleled talent.

He lets his train of thought come to a halt. Dick looks intensely focused on his task, no longer pouting. Only one more zucchini remains. A question comes to mind, and Jason asks before he can help himself.

“Why’re you so interested in cooking lessons anyways? It’s not like you need them.”

Dick doesn’t stop this time, continuing to cut in a slow, rhythmic motion, arms flexing each time he brings the knife down. Gymnastics requires some serious muscle, Jason realizes idly. “But knowing how to cook is,” Dick flounders a bit before settling on, “impressive.”

“What, you need to impress someone, and cooking is the only way?”

“I—Maybe.” He crosses his arms, defensive.

“Wait really?”

“Yeah, but he’s—” Jason raises an eyebrow expectantly “—So what if I’m trying to impress a guy? That’s not the point! Are you gonna let me finish this or not?”

It’s surprising, for some reason, the fact that Dick Grayson would go out of his way to master possibly the one skill he doesn’t already have to impress someone. He doesn’t need it, with his good looks and charming personality, but this person must really be something if they’re in Dick’s league at all.

“Oh so there’s a special someone then, huh? Mr. Mysterious got a name?”

He gets a feeble, “Shut up!” in return, and then Dick is back to his task, refusing to make eye contact and face furiously red.

It’s intriguing, for sure, but Jason is not one to pry, and the information doesn’t actually concern him. So what if Dick is only doing this to impress a guy? It’s not like he doesn’t have the money to spend, and what he does with his lessons isn’t Jason’s problem.

Still, the thought of his precious time being used for something so trivial strikes a nerve, even if he can’t find it in himself to be mad at the guy, not when he has such a sincere smile on his face upon realizing he’d cut a cucumber in record time first try.

It doesn’t take him nearly as long to finish the cucumbers. Jason watches as he cuts the last two, allowing only a small nod of approval, but even then he notices Dick pump a fist out of the corner of his eye. The knives are put away, the vegetables packed tightly into tupperware. Jason takes some—he could always use vegetables, and he had made sure to pick ones that could be incorporated into something—and Dick takes the rest with the intent to distribute them to his friends. They say goodbye at the front door, each going their separate ways after deciding a time for their next lesson.

Jason gets into his car, and for the first time since Dick texted him, he relaxes.

***

Their next lesson happens a little over a week later due to the busyness of both their schedules. Jason comes with very little equipment this time and hopes that Dick managed not to screw up the grocery list he was given.

Dick greets him at the door, bright smile in place. The whole interaction makes Jason feel like they have been friends for years, and he wonders if Dick Grayson has this effect on everyone. Probably, the bastard.

“Looks like you got everything,” he says after inspecting the grocery bags, and Dick preens under the praise, grinning smugly.

“I made sure to get the best looking tomatoes.”

Jason inspects them more closely this time, and, sure enough, they are perfectly ripe, just soft enough to the touch. “Did you wash them?”

Dick’s smile morphs into something embarrassed. “Um, no, I didn’t think to do that,” he says, and Jason holds the bag out to him. Dick takes it to the sink while Jason sets up the space, grabbing various utensils from drawers and cabinets. 

“So what are we making? Or am I just cutting all these again?” Dick asks. He sets the tomatoes on the counter, followed by eggplants, bell peppers, squash, and zucchini. 

“Well, you will be cutting them, but we’re making ratatouille.”

“Ratatouille? You mean the Pixar movie?”

“No, I mean the dish.”

Dick gapes. “That’s an actual dish? I thought they made it up because the movie was about rats!”

Jason freezes from his search through the spice cabinet. There’s no way Dick actually thinks that. No way. He’s got to be messing with him. “No, the movie is about rats because the dish is called ratatouille…”

Dick looks as though his mind has been blown, and Jason resists the sudden urge to laugh. “Don’t sweat it man. Your talents lie elsewhere, it’s okay.” He picks out the thyme from the cabinet and claps him on the back in what’s meant to be a reassuring gesture. It’s a little awkward, the casual touch, and he pulls his hand away quickly, even if Dick doesn’t seem to notice anything strange.

“It’s not okay though! I need to know what ratatouille is!”

“Why? Is it your crush’s favorite meal or something?”

“No, I—I don’t think so,” Dick says. He’s tugging at his collar, and Jason saves him from further embarrassment by tossing an apron at his face.

“Don’t want to get your fancy clothes dirty. Let’s get started.”

He begins with a description of the dish, and when that only results in furrowed eyebrows and an obviously faked, _yeah I understand,_ he pulls up some images on his phone. It’s an immediate improvement—Dick must be more of a visual learner. Then, Jason lays out all the ingredients before them and explains the process thoroughly before they begin.

He lets Dick cut all the vegetables, something he pretends to be angry about before taking the eggplant from Jason’s hand good-naturedly. They work together on the sauce. It doesn’t take Jason long to realize his assumption of visual learner was incorrect, and Dick is more tactile than he’d initially realized. He wants to touch every ingredient, even the ones Jason is handling, and when they build their ratatouille, he agonizes over the placement, running his (clean—Jason had yelled at Dick when he’d gone to touch the vegetables without washing them first) hands all over it to make sure it feels perfect.

It’s not long before they finish, and Jason stands back to admire their work with something akin to pride. He doesn’t teach in person often, and that flash of joy over Dick’s achievement, even if Jason helped him every step of the way, is new, but not unwelcome.

He turns to offer a compliment, anything to express the delight he feels, but Dick’s already there, flying into his arms and clinging to his neck.

“That was awesome and it looks just like the picture and I know you did most of the work but it was so fun and I can’t wait until I can do this stuff myself and—”

“Uh, Dick?” Jason says, and Dick immediately pulls back, face aflame.

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have assumed! I’m just a very touchy-feely person, and I probably should've asked and—”

“It’s cool.” Jason shoves his hands in his pockets, if only to give himself something to do with them. “Just took me by surprise is all.”

They stand there in an uncomfortable silence for all of five seconds before Dick blurts, “Dishes! You said we should do dishes!”

Jason nods. Right. He did say that. 

And so they get to work. Jason cleans, Dick dries, and then they flip when it becomes clear Dick has no idea where anything belongs in the kitchen. They mostly work in silence. By the time they both get ready to leave, Jason to his studio and Dick to his apartment, he debates the idea of quitting.

Dick is friendly, sure, but he’s annoying and naïve and clueless, and Jason doesn’t like him. He doesn’t. Because being friends with the eldest son of Bruce Wayne himself is out of the question, no matter his relation to Alfred. Jason categorically refuses to be anything more than work acquaintances with him.

And therein lies the crux of the problem. It’s impossible not to like Dick. He may be perfect, but he never flaunts it, never makes Jason feel less than he is around him. In fact, something about being in his presence makes Jason feel better, more worthwhile, like Dick’s perfection rubs off on him the longer they are together. It’s silly. Only two lessons with the guy and suddenly he feels he can do anything if only Dick believes he can. 

It’s somehow both exhilarating and terrifying.

Jason steps outside the manor, Dick at his heels, and they make plans for their next meeting.

He may be terrified, but he’s going to see this through.


	3. Chapter 3

The cooking lessons continue where Jason and Dick can fit them in, sometimes at odd hours in order not to inconvenience Alfred since it's his kitchen they're using, after all. They squeeze in a meat and poultry lesson ("If you give someone salmonella I'll die of embarrassment, then haunt you until you buy a meat thermometer," Jason threatens.) before breakfast, causing more than one of the manor's occupants to poke their heads into the kitchen, confused at the incongruous smells. A soup tutorial happens in the dead of night when Dick doesn't have to be up for a class the next morning. They fillet fish at tea time and scoop out a spaghetti squash for brunch.

Gradually, things begin to come together. Just as gradually, Dick realizes that Jason is actually a really good teacher. Somehow Dick's kitchen has been amassing more and more of the basic necessities so he can practice between lessons, Jason's voice in his head as he tries to flip an omelet. (And often, Jason's laughter. It's a good thing eggs are cheap.)

It's a damp and gray afternoon at the manor when Jason announces that today's lesson is pie.

"Baking?" Dick perks up.

"Yeah, if you don't mind," Jason says, heaving his grocery bags onto the counter. He'd insisted on being the one to bring the ingredients today, stating that he 'knew a guy' with the local farmers' market. "I know you said you wanted to learn to cook, not bake, but if you want to be the full package—"

"I do, I definitely do." Dick peers into one of the bags. "And I definitely want pie."

Jason's laugh is familiar by now, a short, muffled thing, like he's embarrassed about it. "Yeah, didn't think you'd mind a baking lesson," he says, also handing over Dick's regular coffee order: a large white chocolate mocha with a caramel shot, topped with whipped cream. "Somehow I thought you might have a bit of a sweet tooth."

Dick grins at him and swaps the mocha for the chai latte he'd grabbed for Jason on the way over. Jason claims the chai blend at Café Vienna is superior to any other in town, and it just so happens to be right on Dick's way to the manor. Dick prefers the more elaborate confections from Burnley Brews, which is smack dab between here and Jason's apartment. It works out.

"So, what do you know about pies?" Jason asks, unpacking the bags. There are deceptively few ingredients. Several of them are pints of blueberries. Dick gets the colander out; he knows enough to know you rinse the fruit first.

"They are delicious," Dick answers. "And there are a lot of different kinds."

Jason points at him like he's just made an excellent observation. "Right. Different kinds. The crust you're learning today isn't too sweet, so you could use it on savory pies if you wanted. It's a little finicky, though." And with that Jason launches into a lecture on the effect of ambient humidity on pastry.

Dick listens as he holds the colander under the faucet because Jason is not above pop quizzes, but part of his mind is distracted by how the berries feel under his hand as he turns them in the colander, making sure they all get rinsed. And he might be, a little bit, imagining the look on Roy's face if he brings a homemade pie with him next time he visits but his fantasy's a little marred by the fact that he's not even sure if Roy likes blueberry. Or what he might prefer if he doesn't. How have pie preferences never come up in all the years they've known each other?

"—which is why skim milk is one of the seven deadly baking sins," Jason finishes, plunking down the last of the mixing bowls they'll need. There are only two, actually, which has got to make this the simplest recipe they've done yet. Dick eyes them with suspicion, and Jason reflects it back at him with a look of his own. "You get all that?"

"Flour, fat, liquid," Dick repeats dutifully.

"Hm," Jason says skeptically. "Thinking about your crush?"

"I can think and listen at the same time," Dick says brightly, shutting off the faucet and giving the colander a little shake to encourage more of the water to drain out. "It's astonishing, really, a miracle of multitasking." Right now, in fact, he's thinking that Jason probably knows Roy's pie preferences but he doesn't really want to ask. The Jason in this kitchen today is a far cry from the stern, disapproving teacher Dick had first met, but… still. Better to keep it to himself.

Jason rolls his eyes, but he's got one of his little I'm-amused-even-though-I'm-trying-not-to-be smiles lurking in the corner of his mouth as he gestures Dick to spread the blueberries out over the paper towels he's laid down so they can dry.

He's all business as he walks Dick through assembling the dough for the crust, though. He talks about the importance of sifting the flour, and the merits of different sorts of fats, and how flakiness happens.

"Guess I should take it as a compliment the next time someone calls me flaky," Dick jokes. "Since it's so much work."

That gets an actual laugh out of Jason, though he does his best to turn it into a groan. Dick's counting it as a triumph.

As the dough starts to come together, Jason gently tugs the spoon Dick's using to mix from his hand. "We don't want to overwork it," Jason says. "Once it's kind of coming together, the best way to finish it is with your hands. That way you can literally get a feel for when it's done. Like this." He puts both hands into the bowl and Dick can't think of any other word for it but _massaging_ the dough together. He's talking about gluten, but Dick's pretty sure this is just magic. In no time at all there's a perfect mound of dough in the bottom of the bowl.

"Here, feel," Jason says, grabbing Dick's hand with his own, his fingers sticky with what will soon be an amazing pastry crust. Dick lets Jason guide his fingers and explain what he's looking for.

"So, that can sit for a minute," Jason goes on, abandoning Dick's hands to their own devices and leaving him pondering the mysteries of flour/fat/liquid. "We don't want to roll it out just yet because it'll dry out. Wipe your hands off and we'll put together the filling."

The filling is astonishingly easy; it's just blueberries, sugar, and a bit of flour. Jason says it's important to taste the blueberries first before he'll commit to a sugar measurement, and Dick doesn't need to be told twice. They're amazingly sweet, so Jason tosses them with just enough sugar to coat them and no more. Dick watches in consternation.

"I thought baking was supposed to be a highly specific science," he complains, having no idea how he's going to replicate this. What if the blueberries he gets are tart? Or sour?

Jason snorts. "People who are good at cooking and bad at baking claim it's because you can't improvise with baking the way you can with cooking. But people who are bad at cooking and good at baking claim the opposite. The truth?" Jason pulls a sugared berry from the bowl and offers it to Dick. "If you know the rules, you can do whatever the fuck you want with both."

Dick takes the berry with a grin and pops it into his mouth. The sugar is, indeed, the perfect amount to enhance the sweetness of the berry without masking its natural flavor.

Then Jason says, "So we'll let those macerate for a bit," and Dick nearly chokes on the berry. Jason raises his eyebrows at him. "I said _macerate_."

"Yes," Dick says. "I know, I just… wrong pipe."

"Macerating is when you put sugar on fruit to draw out its juices," Jason goes on, shaking his head at Dick. "And we'll add a little flour as a thickener. Doesn't have to be flour," he's quick to assure Dick, as though Dick, fairly coated with the stuff from their sifting adventure and having seen more of it this afternoon than he ever has in his life, might suddenly object to its presence in pie filling. "Arrowroot can work, or cornstarch, but we'll keep it simple today."

When it's time to roll the crust out, Jason lays out wax paper and splits their dough ball in two, handing one to Dick before fishing out two rolling pins from the cabinets under the counter. Why Alfred has two rolling pins, Dick doesn't know. Jason's looks like just a cylinder of wood tapered at the ends, while the one he hands Dick has actual handles.

Jason explains that they're rolling the dough on wax paper for easy transfer to the pie plate, then shows Dick how to get started, lecturing as he goes about consistent pressure and thickness. The running commentary doesn't hurt, but Dick gets as much from watching Jason's example. He can see from the flex of muscles in Jason's forearms how much pressure he's exerting on the rolling pin as he works, and how that pressure doesn't change. Jason lets up for a mere second to spin the expanding round of dough around to make sure he's rolling it out in a circle rather than in an oval and then goes right back to it. He makes it look effortless, but those muscles aren't just for show and have probably been formed over the course of hundreds of pies…

"We should make bread," Dick hears himself murmur, watching Jason turn and roll, turn and roll, like he's hypnotized.

"What?" Jason asks, and Dick realizes he interrupted him saying something about using a stencil to determine size.

"Nothing. I was just thinking about. Different kinds of dough." And the kind of strength kneading takes. "I think I'm ready to try myself." He lays into his own lump of pie crust as he saw Jason do. Jason watches him, spotting him to let him know when he's getting a bit off from round, or where he has areas that are thicker than others.

When the pie is finally assembled and slid into the warm oven, Dick leans back with a groan, hands pressed to the small of his back. He's pretty sure he was using the wrong muscle groups to exert pressure on his rolling pin and he glances again, envious, at Jason's developed arms. Apparently the muscles for pie-making are different from the muscles needed to do a quadruple flip on the trapeze.

Jason notices his pained stretch and raises an eyebrow at him. "You all right there, champ?"

"You didn't tell me I needed to warm up before making a pie."

"I hope you didn't pull something," Jason says with a small snort.

"Ha ha. You jump into a gymnastics lesson cold sometime, see how you do."

"Hm," Jason says thoughtfully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "I think that'd be really interesting, actually."

"Yeah?" Dick smiles at the idea of being the expert for once. "You should come to my gym sometime. I'll show you the gymnastic equivalent of chopping five hundred vegetables." He's going to make him stretch for _hours_ before they do anything fun.

"It was not five hundred," Jason retorts.

"It was like, four hundred and ninety nine. And then I practiced on a carrot at home. So. Five hundred."

"I can't be responsible for what you do on your own time," Jason says piously.

"Speaking of which," Dick says, peering over Jason's shoulder while he sets the oven timer. "Whatever shall we do for the next forty-five minutes?"

Jason turns and suddenly their faces are very close indeed. He must not have realized how close Dick was standing, but he doesn't seem fazed. He just cocks his head, giving Dick a look like he can't believe he's asking.

"The dishes, of course."

"Right! Of course the dishes," Dick laughs. They always do the dishes, and clean up the kitchen leaving it just as tidy as they find it. Dick steps away quickly and gathers up the mixing bowls and other paraphernalia to take to the sink. He washes, Jason dries, just like always. After, they wipe up spilled flour and discarded dough scraps and splatters of sticky purple juice. It takes a grand total of fifteen minutes and Dick is about to repeat his question (perhaps slightly less saucily, but sometimes it's just on autopilot) when Jason starts setting out the measuring cups again.

"Wait, we just cleaned up," Dick protests.

"I know, but as long as there's downtime I wanted to practice a recipe I found that might be good for the show." He disappears behind the island and pops up with a blender. "Don't worry, you don't have to help."

"I don't mind helping," Dick says, trying to guess the recipe from the things Jason has out. A cutting board, a blender, another pie plate, a small sauce pan. Several lemons make an appearance.

"Actually," Jason says, pausing in his prep work and suddenly sounding… hesitant? Maybe even a little shy? Dick feels his interest sharpen. "If you could just, like, watch?" he suggests.

"Ah. Got it. I won't get in the way," Dick assures him, and to prove his point, pulls up one of the counter height stools on the other side of the island and sits on his hands.

"What? No, that's not—I mean, I need to practice and it helps to have. An audience."

Is he blushing a little? Dick hopes his grin isn't as predatory as it feels, but this is delightful. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, I mean it helps me work out what I'm going to say. And if you like, ask questions when you don't understand something—"

"When?"

"Okay, fine, _if_ you don't get something," Jason amends, rolling his eyes. "It'll help me remember to explain jargon and keep it at an appropriate level."

"Sure, but you never have that problem during our lessons," Dick points out.

"Because I'm talking to a human instead of a camera," Jason says. "And it's really easy to read your face and your body language and adjust on the fly."

"Oh." Dick hadn't been aware Jason had been paying that much attention to him. "Well, this sounds like fun. I'm happy to be your test audience." He sticks his elbows on the counter and puts his chin in his hands and gazes expectantly at Jason.

"Oh my God, stop that. With the eyes. Jesus," Jason says, putting both hands over his face and turning away. "You're making me regret this already."

"Okay, okay, sorry, I'll be good," Dick says, dialing it back and sitting like a normal person. "Please, tell me what you are going to do with that blender and those lemons."

Jason turns back with a warning look at Dick, and then, hesitantly at first but gaining confidence, begins to explain the recipe.

It's just like watching a behind-the-scenes cut of his YouTube show. Dick can see exactly what the finished episode will look like if this is practice; a lot of the prep work will be edited down, Jason will have smoothed his patter into just the essentials and eliminated any verbal fillers, and he'll completely charm the audience with this weird blender pie he's making.

Dick tries to think of helpful questions and comments but really, this pie is pretty simple. The most complicated part is determining when it's fully baked since it's a custard-like consistency. Once it's in the oven, Jason dusts off his hands and turns to Dick.

"So?"

"I think you've got it down, really."

"No questions at all?" he asks, so earnestly that Dick feels bad he doesn't have any.

"Are pies your favorite dessert?" Dick blurts out, just to have something to ask.

Jason blinks at him. "Uh. No, not really," he says. "They just make a good lesson because a lot of people are intimidated by them, but they're actually really simple."

"Hm. What is your favorite then?" Dick asks, lifting the blender and cutting board out of the way and taking them to the sink so Jason can wipe down the counter.

"I dunno. I guess, if I _had_ to pick." He thinks for a second. "Probably chocolate chip cookies."

"What?" Dick asks, turning from the sink to stare at him.

"What?" Jason counters.

"I mean, but you're… you! Shouldn't it be something with a complicated French name or—"

"Complicated?" Jason interrupts. "Look, chocolate chip cookies are a lot more complex than people think." Dick recognizes the sign of an oncoming food lecture so he doesn't turn on the faucet to start soaking the blender, just leans against the sink and listens expectantly. Jason doesn't seem to notice, swiping at Alfred's lovely quartz countertops aggressively with a damp towel. "I mean sure, they _seem_ simple, but lot of effort goes into making a good one! You have to take the time to practice and learn the recipe in the context of your own oven, find what works for you and then sure, maybe they're not too technically difficult, but even then you'll still have batches that come out flat—"

"So you like them because they're secretly a pain in the ass?" Dick asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Secretly complex, and no, I like them because they're fucking delicious and yes, I'm aware that I'm in good company with everyone else on the planet. The heart wants what the heart wants, Grayson. Now get that blueberry pie out of the oven before it burns."

"Hm, I dunno," Dick muses, looking around for an oven mitt. He catches the pair Jason wings at him just before they hit him in the face. "I mean sure, everyone else _likes_ them," he says, bending over the oven to pull the pie. "But I don't know how many people would say chocolate chip cookies are their favorite over anything else. Is this done?" He straightens, holding the pie in his mitted hands for Jason's inspection. The filling is bubbling gently and the crust is a lovely toasted brown.

"Yeah, looks good. Now we let it cool."

Dick inhales the delicious aroma wafting from the pie. "It smells like a pop-tart," he says happily.

"A _pop-tart_?" Jason sputters. "That is a homemade pie you pulled a muscle for, you philistine."

"So I can call it what I want," Dick says. He goes back to the sink. "How do you wash a blender?"

"Not still attached to the electric base, for starters," Jason growls, nudging Dick aside and removing the appliance in question to a safe distance.

They go through another round of washing and drying mostly in companionable silence, the lemon pie beginning to make its presence known in the air (it does not smell like a pop-tart). As Dick puts the last of the mixing bowls away, Jason asks, "So what's _your_ favorite dessert?"

"Anything you make, of course," Dick says, throwing a wink over his shoulder before turning back to the cupboard where he's having to stand on tip-toe to try to get the mixing bowl onto the high shelf where it belongs. He's not sure if the sound Jason makes is a laugh or an exhalation of exasperation, but a second later Jason is plucking the bowl from his outstretched hand and easily sliding it into place, practically smothering Dick in the process since Dick hadn't stepped back. Dick rolls his eyes at Jason's pecs. "Show-off."

"And you're incorrigible, so we're even."

"Incorrigible," Dick repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Incorrrrigible. That's a good word. So's philistine, for that matter."

"I like words," Jason says with a shrug that looks practiced to Dick's eye.

"Yeah?" Dick glances at the pie. "How long do those usually take to cool?"

"Could be a while. And you can't really cut into it while it's still warm or you'll have soup. If you've got somewhere to be—"

"No, no, that just means we have time," Dick says. "Have you ever seen the manor's library?" He can tell from the way Jason's eyes are suddenly very focused on him, and the interested arch of his eyebrows, that he hasn't. "Oh, you'll love it. Come on." He means to grab Jason's sleeve to pull him along, but ends up with his wrist in his hand instead. It works all the same.

Jason is suitably impressed with the library, which gives Dick a warm, satisfied feeling, even if he can't answer Jason's questions about the organizational system it uses. Jason sets out to try to figure it out himself, and Dick tells him what he can. They end up just browsing the shelves and pointing out childhood and current favorites, though Jason has significantly more of these than Dick. They do take a break when Jason suddenly realizes his lemon pie is likely done, and he plucks it from the oven in, according to him, the nick of time.

It seems like no time at all before the blueberry pie is cool and suddenly the other occupants of the manor put in an appearance, sensing the imminent distribution of baked goods. Dick had been wondering where they all were; it's not always possible to tell who's home in such a large house but apparently all you have to do is slice a pie and they come running.

Jason takes them in stride; Damian's attempts to appear disinterested, Tim's grilling about exactly how safe a pie Dick had made might be to consume, Cass's casual thievery of bits of crust from other peoples' plates, Duke's insistence that he only needs a small piece – a small one – that's not a small one! – and the general chaos of it all. Bruce and Alfred aren't there – they're off on business somewhere – but they save the last two slices for them.

Just as magically, everyone vanishes when all that's left is several purple-stained pie plates that need cleaning. Jason shakes his head and Dick laughs. What's a few more dishes? They do a third round of washing up.

The lemon pie isn't quite cool enough to cut into yet, but it's getting late. Jason decides to leave it at the manor. After all, he needs taste testers, and the manor is full of them. Alfred will always give him an honest opinion.

"Are you sticking around?" Jason asks, glancing around the kitchen to make sure he hasn't left anything.

"Nah, I'll head out too," Dick says. They walk to the door together and initiate the by-now familiar back-and-forth about next lessons.

"Tomorrow morning?" Jason offers.

"I've got a class," Dick demurs. "Tuesday?"

"I can do evening."

"Ah, I was hoping for morning. Dinner plans."

"And me with brunch plans," Jason says with a lopsided smile. They shove the manor's frankly ridiculous front doors open and emerge shoulder-to-shoulder into the cool evening air. "Wednesday?"

"Free all day," Dick says.

"Let's call it morning, then."

"Sounds good. See you then." Dick leans in to ki—wait, no. He sort of pulls back, but he was already committed to the action and it makes him stumble in a rare show of clumsiness as he tries to turn – _whatever_ his traitor body had just been about to do – into a hug.

Jason looks confused as hell as Dick gives him a weird sort of half-hug with bonus jaw-bump, and Dick can't blame him. He laughs it off and trips away from Jason with a wave, just another one of those weird Dick Grayson things. (He hopes. He hopes Jason didn't realize what he'd been about to do. Because it had been a mistake. An awkward, awkward mistake!)

Luckily Jason just shakes his head and heads to his own car while Dick sinks into the driver's seat of his and tries his best to disappear.

_It was a fluke_ , he thinks on the drive home, managing it mostly on autopilot. _Just one of those weird things_.

Streetlights stripe the empty passenger seat as he meanders down side streets to the main roads.

_It was just going to be a kiss on the cheek. That's normal. Friendly._

He realizes he's forgotten to put his music on and has been just driving in silence like some kind of psycho. He jabs at the stereo until it starts doing something.

He probably didn't even notice. It was totally innocuous. A random misfire.

By the time he pulls into his parking spot, he's analyzed every single thing he'd said to Jason that day and for the past week. He wasn't flirting. He _wasn't._

At least, not on purpose. Sometimes the flirt was just… just on autopilot. And it wasn't flirting! It was friendly. Flirting would imply he _likes_ Jason, and he doesn't like Jason, he likes Roy. So what he does with Roy is flirting and what he does with Jason is friendly even if sometimes… those interactions… seemed… pretty… similar.

Dick literally says "Argh" and flops onto his couch, covering his face with his hands.

Maybe it was because he'd been thinking of Roy? Yeah, that's it. Maybe he's seen Jason just as much or more than Roy recently but he was definitely thinking of Roy the whole time ( _Even in the library?_ his stupid brain whispers) so it's no wonder things got a little jumbled.

Dick drags his phone out of his pocket and picks Roy's name off his list of favorites.

"Hey man, thought you had a thing tonight," Roy says.

"It's over. Done thing. Hey Roy, what's your favorite dessert?" Dick asks.

"You called to ask that?"

"Yes." He can't know Jason's and not Roy's. That wouldn't be right at all.

"Well heck, I dunno Dick. You know I'll eat just about anything."

"Sure, but given a choice."

"I guess… hmm, maybe a peach cobbler. Warm, with vanilla ice cream."

"Mm," Dick says. It did sound good, even though he was full of pie. Friendly, platonic pie. "How come?"

"How come?" Roy echoes with a laugh. "It's good, that's all! Why, what's yours?"

"I dunno," Dick says and Roy laughs again.

"So it's okay when you say it?"

"Yes. I'm incorrigible."

"Well at least you're aware of that."

They talk a little longer, the conversation wandering comfortably and eventually drawing to a natural close and Dick feels better after they hang up. What he likes most about Roy is that Roy has never made assumptions that Dick owes him anything just because Dick might behave in ways that could be interpreted as flirty. Dick never has to rein himself in with Roy.

He hasn't been reining himself in with Jason.

Is Jason making assumptions? Dick doesn't think so. But he also can't say he feels that same level of comfort with Jason that he feels with Roy. It's not that he's _un_ comfortable. It's just… different.

He needs to start paying more attention to how he's interacting with Jason, and how Jason reacts. Dick knows he can't really have been flirting with Jason before since flirting does require some intent, but if he _did_ flirt with him, how much would that really change? Would doing it deliberately feel wrong or awkward? That would be a decent litmus test to figure out exactly how to delineate the difference between what he feels for Roy and what he feels for Jason.

Not that he feels—well, all right, he obviously feels _something_ for Jason. But he feels something for Roy too and he doesn't want to think he's that fickle. The feelings are similar, sure, but different. He just needs to figure out how they're different.

By flirting with his cooking instructor. For science.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: Chocolate chip cookie discussion inspired by: <https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/172414281558/whats-your-favorite-headcanon-for-jaydick>


	4. Chapter 4

The engine cuts off, and a silence creeps into the car. Jason sighs as he unbuckles his seatbelt. In front of him, the manor looms large: ivy-covered stone, large gothic windows, the hint of smoke curling from a chimney. It’s become familiar over the past couple of months. Less cold. More inviting. It almost feels like something he could get used to. Almost. 

His hand goes to the door handle, but he can’t quite bring himself to pull it open. For some reason he finds himself looking in the rear-view mirror. God. His hair’s a mess. It looks like he hasn’t shaven in a few days, which he hasn’t, but it didn’t look this bad when he left his apartment. 

_ What will Dick think?  _ Jason thinks, then hates that he thought it. 

Who cares what Dick thinks. He’s not friends with Dick—well, not good friends. So maybe Dick isn’t the petulant rich kid Jason thought he was, but that doesn’t mean they have to be besties. His only job is to finish the lesson, go home, and forget about Dick Grayson and his ridiculous crush. 

Right?

Jason squeezes the keys in his hand and pretends there isn’t a knot in his stomach and an ache in his chest. He takes a deep breath, and then another. The manor seems to be looking at him, two dozen window-eyes pointed at his face. Is it judging him? Can it sense that he doesn’t belong here? Does it dislike Jason? Is it just waiting for him to  _ leave already?  _

_ Shit,  _ he thinks, running his hands through his hair in a last-ditch effort to control his curls. Doesn’t work. It never works. He’s going to walk into the lesson looking like a ragged doll while Dick prances around him with pretty clothes, pretty hair, pretty eyes, and a pretty smile. 

God. What must his crush look like, if Dick is going through all this work to impress them? 

The knot inside Jason tightens at the thought. He sighs, looking pointedly away from the manor. Maybe he pulled a core muscle during his workout. And he’s just been sitting for too long. Just sitting and staring, sitting and staring, trying to do anything but think about Dick Grayson. 

This is stupid. He needs fresh air. 

Grabbing his bag, Jason steps out of his car, shuts the door behind him. His feet scrape over the stone as he walks quickly toward the manor and raps his knuckles on the door.  _ Let’s get this over with,  _ he thinks, shuffling from foot to foot.  _ Finish the lesson and go home.  _

The door opens with a creak. 

“Ah. Mister Todd,” Alfred says, offering a thin but genuine smile. “It is good to see you again.”

“Heya Alfred,” Jason replies. He walks inside, keeping his eyes on the floor to stop himself from looking for Dick. “How’s it going?” 

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “I suppose I should be asking you that question. It did not escape my notice that you were in your car for quite a while.” 

Jason’s face reddens. “Dropped my keys between the seats,” he mutters.

“Of course,” Alfred replies, face impassive. “Master Richard is in the kitchen. Shall I alert him of your presence?”

“I can find my way. Thanks.” He gives Alfred a quick smile, as if to say,  _ I’m fine, really. Nothing to see here!  _

Maybe he picked up something at the studio. Biz  _ was _ looking a little pale the other day. Of course, Biz always looks a little pale, but still. Maybe he should cancel the lesson before it’s too late and he gets everyone sick—

But it’s too late. Jason is already walking through the kitchen doors, his heart fluttering like fabric in the wind. 

He’s met with a gust of warm air. Blinking away the heat, he sees that the kitchen has already been prepped: the mixing bowls and scale out on the counter, folded towels placed neatly beside them, rolling pins, flour, salt **.** And beside it all is Dick, wearing a tentative grin and an apron that says, SPOONING LEADS TO FORKING.

“Hey,” Dick says. “I thought, if I got everything ready—it’s not fair to make you do stuff I can do easily, you know?” 

Jason stares. His face is hot; Dick must have preheated the oven. A waste of energy. They won’t be using it for hours. 

“Anyway, hey! Bread day!” Dick makes a jazzy motion with his hands. “Let’s hope it doesn’t go  _ a rye _ , am I right?” 

“Oh my god.” Shaking his head, Jason slips off his bag and jacket and lays them on the counter. “You’re making me regret this.” 

“Aww, someone’s flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

Dick laughs, nudging him with an elbow. “Don’t be a sourpuss. Fluster looks good on you.”

Jason nearly chokes on his tongue. He looks at Dick, then looks away quickly. “It’s fucking hot in here,” he replies. “How long has the oven been on?” 

“It’s not on?” 

“Oh.” Jason thrusts his hands into the sink, lets cool water run over them until his skin feels less red. “Maybe it’s just me.” 

Leaning over the counter, Dick rests his chin on his fists. “Maybe you’re just hot,” he says. 

“Yeah. That’s what I said.” Drying his hands on a towel, Jason takes a deep breath. “So. Bread day.” 

Dick blinks. Now his face is flushed too, brick-red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t make eye contact as he starts fiddling with the nearest drawer. “Right,” he replies.

“Are you ready?”

“Yep.” Dick nods, staring at the drawer in front of him. “You could even say that I’m  _ bready.”  _

“I’ll give you five out of ten for that one,” Jason says. 

“Damn. Guess I’ll have to practice.” 

The moment Jason realizes that he’s smiling is the moment he stops. His stomach twists again.  _ A business relationship,  _ he reminds himself.  _ That’s all this is. All you want it to be. So get to it.  _

Clearing his throat, Jason starts to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. “Right,” he says. “We’re gonna start with a few basic doughs, to give you practice with the techniques, then we’ll work up to something a little more complicated.”

A moment passes. Then Dick says, “Okay.”

“You bought bread flour, right?”

Dick points to a large bag across the kitchen. 

“Cool. And you know why you should—”

“Because bread flour has a higher protein content that allows for greater gluten development,” Dick finishes, smiling furtively. “I might have researched it a little.” 

“Oh,” Jason says. “That’s—”  _ Enterprising. Awesome. Sweet. Great. Smart. Amazing.  _ “—nice.”

“Like I told you. I’m  _ bready.” _

“Got any new jokes?” He rolls his eyes, trying to hide the smile that creeps over his face. “That one’s kind of  _ crumby.”  _

Dick heaves the bag of flour onto the counter. “Give me a moment, and I’ll be on a roll.” 

“Oh my god. I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not. You  _ love  _ me.” 

The tips of Jason’s ears grow hot. “I don’t,” he says. 

Dick leans forward again—too close—and bats his long, dark eyelashes. The kitchen lights are sparkles in the deep blue of his irises. “Sure you don’t,” he purrs. 

For a moment Jason is caught. His lungs feel as though they’ve been flooded with water.  _ What is this?  _ he wants to ask.  _ What are you doing?  _

“Four hundred grams of flour,” he says suddenly, tearing his eyes away from Dick’s. “Bread flour, I mean. Not the other kind.” 

Something flashes over Dick’s face. “Oh,” he says, straightening. “Yeah. I can—I can do that.”

“Great.” Jason watches him measure out the flour, thinking but trying not to. Dick isn’t flirting; Jason  _ knows  _ he isn’t. This is just who Dick is. A stupid rich boy who knows exactly how to get what he wants. 

Except Dick isn’t stupid. Or shallow. Or conceited. He’s actually kind, and clever, and generous, and selfless, and—

“Now what?” Dick asks. 

Jason blinks. “Um, gram of yeast. Any kind. Then whisk it together.” 

“Cool cool. You want to tell me what this is?” 

“No knead.” 

Dick raises an eyebrow. “No need to tell me what this is?” 

“No  _ knead,  _ as in…” Jason makes a grabby motion with his hands. “Kneading. It’s a Jim Lahey recipe. Very famous, only a little bit hard to fuck up. You’ll want to whisk in ten grams of salt, by the way.”

“Mmm hmm. No apron today?” 

“What?”

Dick motions to Jason’s red henley. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but you’re gonna get flour all over your pecs.”

Heat spreads across Jason’s face and ears. Instinctively he crosses his arms over his chest and turns away, pretending to look for something on the opposite wall. “It’s just flour,” he mutters. 

A few seconds pass before Dick says anything. “Now what?” he asks. 

Jason tells him, falling back on memory and routine. Mix in one and one-third cups of water. A rough ball of dough will form. Yes, it’s okay that it’s sticky. Just make sure that everything is mixed in evenly. Cover it in plastic wrap. Let it sit at room temperature.

_ This is fine,  _ he reminds himself.  _ It’s just cooking. You know how to do this.  _

Dick sets the bowl on one of the many countertops, wiping his hands on his apron. “So how long do we have to wait?” he asks. 

“Ideally, twenty-four hours.”

“Wait, you didn’t tell me you were—”

“Calm down, Grayson,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. He walks over to his bag, pulls out the bowl he had stashed inside. “I made one yesterday. I’ll show you how to shape and bake it, and then you can make that one on your own.” Swallowing, he adds, “You can even—you can show it off to Mr. Mysterious, if you want.”

Something passes over Dick’s face. “Oh,” he says. “That’s—I just want to learn how to do it. Make bread, I mean. With you.” 

_ With you.  _ A different kind of warmth spread through Jason’s core, a pleasant warmth. Like hell if he knew what to do with it or why it was there. Nonetheless, he allowed himself a small smile. 

“We’ll need a well-floured surface,” he said, peeling the cellophane off the bowl.

“Like the pie crust?”

“Like the pie crust.” 

Holding the bowl in his arms, Jason watches Dick spread flour over the wooden butcher’s block. His fingers are long and slender, callused but gentle. Something about the way his hands move reminds Jason of dancing: everything is precise and elegant, just rhythmic enough to keep him enchanted. There’s flour gathered in the dips between Dick’s knuckles. For some reason, Jason thinks about holding his hands and softly brushing away the spots of white. 

“Done,” Dick says, and Jason blinks. 

_ Idiot. What was that? _

“Um…” Quickly he turns out the dough onto the floured surface and starts to pull at the corners. “This is how you form a round loaf,” he says, pulling and turning, pulling and turning. “You don’t want to incorporate any flour. We’re just forming a taut dome.” 

“A taut dome.”

“A taut dome!” Jason repeats again, forming the boule on the counter. He opens a drawer, pulls out a clean hand towel. “And then you just—cover this in flour—lie it on top—there.”

The dough is a lump beneath the floured dish towel. Tiny particles of flour float through the air, coating their arms, their eyelashes. Jason refuses to look at Dick.

“This is exciting,” Dick says.

“It’s proofing.”

“You know, I hear breadmaking is on the rise, these days.”

It takes Jason a moment. “God damn it,” he mutters. 

Dick leans over the counter, fingering the edge of the towel. “Oh come on,” he says, looking up at Jason with gleam in his eyes. His full lips pull into a smirk. “That was a good one.” 

“It was okay.”

“You wound me,” Dick replies, feigning indignation. “But seriously. What are we going to do while we wait? A guy can only sit and look for so long.” He pauses, chewing his lip. “Even if the view is nice.” 

Jason looks at Dick, then at the lump beneath the towel. Something twists in his core. Maybe he did pick up something. “You…like watching bread rise?” he asks. 

Dick pauses before saying, “Do you?” 

Something about the way he says it makes Jason think they aren’t talking about bread anymore. A silly thought. Scratching the inside of his arm, he offers a non-commital shrug. “Wanna learn how to knead?” 

“Oh.” A confused look passes over Dick’s face, but it fades quickly. “Sure.” 

They make another.

Jason guides him through the process of making a simple loaf, European-style. Flour. Salt. Water. A little bit of sugar, for the yeast to feed on while it blooms. While they work he’s all-too cognizant of the smell of Dick’s hair—bright and sweet, like summer—and the way Dick’s brow furrows when he concentrates, as if he were counting each individual grain of salt. 

“Kneading isn’t hard,” Jason tells him, turning the dough onto the counter. “It’s going to be sticky, but the more you work it—” He presses the heels of his hands into the mass, pushes, turns. “—the smoother and springier it’s going to get.” 

“You gonna keep showing off, or do I get to try?” Dick asks. 

“Go for it.” 

Dick folds the dough towards him, presses it away, rotates it. His movements are slow, almost tentative.

“Think  _ deep-tissue massage,” _ Jason says. “You need a little force to develop the gluten. Be rough with it.” 

“Kinky,” Dick mutters. 

“They don’t call it a workout for nothing.” 

Nodding, Dick starts to work the dough with more effort, driving his weight into each push of his hands. After a few turns, he finds his rhythm. Fold, press, rotate. Fold, press, rotate. His hair shimmers as he moves, so black it’s almost blue under the kitchen lights. The muscles in his forearms tighten and release each time he pushes with the heel of his palms, and Jason thinks,  _ maybe I should go to his gym sometime.  _ It really would be something, seeing Dick swinging from a trapeze, tumbling through the air, wearing nothing but nylon that hugs the shape of his—

“Like what you see?” Dick asks. 

Jason swallows, trying to force the thought into some dark corner of his mind. “I’m just, um, making sure you don’t pull a muscle this time,” he says. 

“Uh huh.” Dick raises an eyebrow as a sly smile ghosts his lips. “Are you trying to get a  _ rise  _ out of me, Mr. Todd?” 

“Oh my god. I hope your crush likes puns,” Jason mutters, but it feels like he’s saying it more for his sake than Dick’s.  _ He’s got the hots for someone. Not that you care. You don’t care at all.  _

Fold, press, rotate. Fold, press, rotate. Half a minute passes before Jason realizes that Dick hasn’t responded at all. He’s too busy staring at the dough as he works it beneath his hands, though something tells Jason that he isn’t really looking at it. 

“That should be enough,” he says softly, after they pass too long in silence. 

Dick steps away from the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. “So that’s kneading,” he says. 

Jason nods. “What’s important is getting down the basics. If you know how to knead and prove and all that, you can start branching out to more complicated recipes.”

“Right.” Dick smiles kindly. “As if I could ever do that without you.”

_ A business relationship.  _

Jason forces himself to laugh. “What am I?” he asks. “Your security chef? You’ve got to grow up sometime, Grayson. I can’t be there every time you want to impress your crush.” 

The smile fades from Dick’s face. A moment passes, and then he says, “I guess you’re right.”

“Don’t worry. The rest of it is easy,” Jason adds, pulling a mixing bowl into his arms. “The trick is oiling the bowl, to make sure it doesn’t stick, and then—where are you going?”

“Pantry,” Dick says, already disappearing through the door. 

“Why?”

Dick doesn’t say anything. He comes back with an armful of onions, which he sets on the counter before reaching for a knife. Not once does he look in Jason’s direction. 

Jason stares, dumbfounded.

“I—I forgot,” Dick mutters, cutting roughly into the first onion. His knife work is sloppy; if Jason could think, he might have corrected it. “I forgot.”

“You…forgot?”

“I said I would—Damian wanted French Onion soup.” His voice breaks as he speaks. He rubs his eyes on his sleeve and keeps chopping. “I told him I would make it.” 

Jason looks at the onions piled up on the counter. “How much can Damian eat?” 

“I wanted to freeze some.” 

“I see,” Jason says, not seeing anything but the wet shine on Dick’s cheeks. His stomach lurches.  _ Are you crying?  _ he wants to ask. But of course he’s crying: the room is filled with a sharp tang, enough to sting the inside of his nose. It’s just the onion. 

At least, he thinks it is. 

Dick keeps chopping. Then suddenly there are no more onions and he isn’t chopping anymore, and he’s looking at Jason with wet eyes and a large smile. 

“Sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes again. “Like I said. I forgot.” 

“Oh. Yeah, That’s fine,” Jason replies, trying to smile back. 

Dick reaches out as if to touch him, then seems to change his mind. “Let’s keep going,” he says decisively. “Wouldn’t want the dough to dry out.”

The rest of the lesson proceeds without interruption. While the breads proof, Jason shows Dick how to make strawberry jam. They clean up. The breads go into the oven. They talk about Dick’s lessons, about the show that Jason is going to film in a few hours. Two of Dick’s students are entering their first competition next weekend. Jason is making a leek carbonara. 

Dick doesn’t talk about his crush. Not even when Jason prompts him. 

As he leaves the manor—no awkward half-hug this time, just a friendly handwave—he can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe Dick has fallen out of love. Maybe he’s changed his mind.

With the thought returns the implacable feeling from before. Not quite nausea and not quite excitement, but somewhat of an amalgamation of the two. Jason lingers in it for a moment too long.  _ It means nothing,  _ he tells himself. He’s just mixed up some emotions, projected his love of cooking onto Dick Grayson. Well, not  _ Dick,  _ obviously. The situation. He’s projected his love of cooking onto the situation. Jason doesn’t have any feelings for Dick.

He hops into his car, turns on the engine. Hopefully everything will get better once he’s back in his studio.

***

At work Jason is much more in his element. This is his space. His countertops, his equipment, his knives. He doesn’t have to look at chandeliers, or marble statues, or portraits worth more than his monthly rent. Everything is so familiar. He can breathe again. 

Before the shoot, Jason slips on his apron with the Red Apron logo and sets up the workspace. The set lights grow stronger with each passing second. Before long it’s a pleasant temperature in the studio, just warm enough to make him feel a little heavy. 

_ Could have used a coffee,  _ he muses.  _ Or a chai latte.  _

He thinks of Dick. Grabbing a coffee for Dick. With Dick. Watching Dick from across the table, close enough to reach out and wipe away the smear of whipped cream beside his upper lip—

Fingers snap in front of his face. “Hey, Jason,” Roy says. “You in there, bud?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.”

Roy gives him a look. “You were out of it. What’s on your mind?” 

“Nothing in particular,” Jason replies. It isn’t a lie, not really. He was just thinking about coffee. He’s so tired. 

“Uh huh,” Roy replies, clearly not believing him. “Anyway, are you ready to go?” 

Right. Work. 

“All set,” Jason says.

Roy pats him on the back. “Good. I’ll get the camera rolling. Just start when you’re ready.”

Jason rolls his shoulders, stretching out before he has to put on his Performance Face. Bright eyes, wide smile. “You’re sure I shouldn’t shave first?” he asks, rubbing a hand along his jaw. 

“Dude. I told you. Rugged is a good look,” Roy says. He fiddles with the mic stand, making adjustments Jason can’t see. “There’s nothing wrong with making your followers a little thirsty too.” 

“Yeah, but I’m not making drinks,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. He’s not naive—it would be hard to miss that a good chunk of his subscribers are interested in more than coq au vin and quiche Lorraine. It’s just that he’d rather pretend otherwise. 

In the back of his mind, someone whispers,  _ maybe Dick likes rugged guys.  _

“Rolling,” Roy says, looking expectantly at Jason. 

Jason blinks a few times, recentering himself in the moment.  _ This is your space,  _ he reminds himself.  _ You’re in charge here.  _

And for some time, he is. 

The shoot starts out the same, with him greeting viewers, welcoming them to his channel, name-dropping this week’s sponsor (“Be sure to check for my referral link in the description after watching this video!”), reminding them to check out his website for the recipe, blah blah blah. Everything rolls off his tongue smoothly; no second takes are needed. This isn’t a surprise. Jason could do this part in his sleep by now. 

After, there’s the space reset. Jason grabs the first things he needs—leeks, garlic, thyme—places them on camera according to Roy’s liking, and the shoot starts again. 

_ This week we’re taking a look at a simple leek carbonara…  _

_ Trim, wash, and finely slice the leeks. We’re looking for very fine slices, so that the leeks cook up nice and delicate and really stick to the fettuccini…  _

_ Put a casserole pan on medium heat with olive oil and just a tab of butter. Next we’re going to add the garlic and thyme, and once it’s nice and sizzly we’re gonna go in with the leeks and the water. We’re going to let this rest over low heat for a good forty minutes, until our leeks are sweet and soft… _

“Damn, that smells good,” Roy says. “Kinda makes me want to eat it now.” 

“Do you  _ ever  _ eat before a shoot?” Jason asks.

“Why the hell would I do that?” 

Jason smiles, wiping down the counter. For the first time all day he feels  _ good.  _ Confident. The leeks are simmering on the stove and he knows exactly what needs to be done next. 

Maybe this is what he needs. Maybe, if he and Dick stopped meeting at the manor, and started meeting in his workspace, then all the weird will go away. Yes, that’s it. 

“One sec,” he tells Roy, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No! I mean, no. I just need to ask someone a question.” 

Roy raises an eyebrow. “A special someone?”

“Oh, fuck off, Harper,” Jason replies, ignoring the way his stomach twists inside him. He sits at one of the side tables and runs his fingers over the surface of his phone, wondering why it feels like a big deal, calling Dick. 

Thinking is stupid. 

Jason puts his phone against his ear, waiting for the ringing to stop. Three seconds, four seconds… 

“Jason?” Dick says, and the sound of his voice resonates in Jason’s ears. 

“Hey.” He licks his lips, suddenly unsure of himself. “I’ve, uh, got a question.”

There’s a pause. “What kind of question?” Dick asks. 

“I was wondering if—”  _ Why is this so hard?  _ “—I was wondering if, for our next lesson, you could come over to the studio.”

“The studio?”

“Yeah,” Jason says. Fuck. He forgot to come up with a reason. “We, uh, need specific equipment. I don’t think you’ll have it.”

“We have it,” Dick says, too quickly.

“Um. I didn’t say what we—”

“I can’t work at the studio. We can’t.”

“What? Why not?” Jason asks. 

“Because Roy’s there! It just—I’m trying to keep it a secret still.” Dick pauses and takes a deep breath. If he can hear Jason’s heartbeat through the phone, he doesn’t show it. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll ask Alfred to get it.” 

Jason nods even though he knows Dick can’t see him. “Okay,” he says softly. 

“I’ll, um, talk to you later?”

“Talk to you later.”

The call ends. Jason stares at his screen, replaying every word in his head. It feels like he did something wrong, but it also feels like he didn’t. He doesn’t know what to think.

_ I can’t work at the studio. _

_ Because Roy’s there!  _

It doesn’t make any sense. Last Jason heard, Dick and Roy were friends. Good friends. And Roy hasn’t mentioned a falling out with anyone, and Dick hasn’t either, so unless there is something he missed—

His head snaps up. Across the room, Roy is scrolling away on his own phone, not paying him any attention. The longer Jason watches him, the more he knows himself to be right.

It’s Roy. Dick has a crush on  _ Roy.  _

Jason’s fingers tug at the edges of his apron.  _ This is fine,  _ he tells himself. Great, even. Roy is a great friend, and he’s funny, and it hasn’t escaped Jason’s notice that he’s a handsome guy. And Dick isn’t anything like Jason first thought. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and intelligent, and perceptive, and surprisingly humble, even though he’s easily the most perfect person Jason has ever met. Dick and Roy would make a great couple. It’s fine. One-hundred percent fine. 

“Hey, uh…shouldn’t we get started again?” Roy asks. 

Jason flies out of the chair and runs over to the work station. “Yep!” he says, breathless, smoothing down the wrinkles in his apron.  _ Performance Face, Performance Face, nothing is wrong…  _

Roy points. “Your hair.”

“Damn,” Jason hisses, smoothing down his curls again. Thank god he has Roy, a good friend. He’d be so good for Dick. 

“Woah there, Jaybird.” Roy laughs. “No need to go crazy.” 

Jason’s hands fall to his sides. “Right,” he says. “Let’s—let’s do this thing.”

“Ready when you are.” 

Big breath in, big breath out. Jason smiles at the camera.  _ This is fine,  _ he thinks. 

_ When our leeks are about halfway done, we’re going to heat a pot of water and allow it to come to a rolling boil. You can use any kind of pasta you want—go crazy. For this recipe, I’m going to be using linguini— _

“Fettuccine,” Roy says. 

Jason pauses. “What?” 

“You’re using fettuccine. That’s what you made last night.”

Swearing, Jason resets himself, repeating the word in his head.  _ Fettuccine. Fettuccine.  _

_ For this recipe, I’m going to be using fettuccine. To see how I make this, click the link down below…  _

_ Now we’re going to remove this baby from the heat and finely grate our parmesan cheese. We want to make sure we give the leeks enough time to cool, otherwise the egg will scramble when we beat it in…  _

“God damn it!” Jason hisses, yanking his hand away from the cheese grater. Beads of blood appear over the knuckle of his thumb. “We’ve got Band-Aids, right?”

“Ouch.” Roy motions to his backpack. “You should be more careful.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Jason replies dryly. He fishes around in Roy’s bag, pulls out a bandage, tears it open.  _ What’s wrong with you?  _ he thinks.  _ You fucked up cheese.  _

Roy watches him as he walks back to the station. “Is something wrong?” he asks. “You look a little…uh…”

“I’m fine.”

And he is, for another few minutes. Then he drops his tongs and splatters leek all over his apron, and he wonders what puns Dick would make with leeks—does Roy like puns?—and when he tries to plate the pasta, he spills fettuccine over the workspace. He cleans. He tries again. The second time he leaves a messy pile on the plate, but Jason is able to shrug it off with a joke. Because he likes jokes. Even puns. 

“So that was…something,” Roy says, after. 

“Just an off day,” Jason mumbles.

“Pasta was pretty good, though.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Mmm hmm.” Roy pats his bag. “You’re going to help me edit this one, by the way. With all your screw-ups it’s gonna take a lot of work to get this baby right.”

_ That’s fair,  _ Jason should say. But he’s afraid to open his mouth, because if he does he might ask the question that burns, inexplicably, at the front of his mind. 

_ Do you like Dick too?  _

Finally, he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Tuesday?” he asks.

“Mmm, can’t do Tuesday. Dinner plans. Does Wednesday work?”

“Wednesday is fine.”

Roy gives him a once-over, eyes narrow. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. “You look a little pale.” 

“I haven’t been out much,” Jason says.

“You’re sweating.”

“The set lights.” 

There’s a pause, and then Roy sighs, adjusting his bag again. “If I wake up sick tomorrow, I’m blaming you,” he says. 

“I’m not sick,” Jason replies, but it doesn’t matter. Roy is already leaving, and he probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway—hell, maybe he was right. Even though he’s standing on solid ground, Jason’s insides churn as if he were atop the apex of a roller coaster. 

_ God damn it.  _

The studio bathroom is cold. He leans over the sink, splashes water over his face until the skin is almost numb. As he dries himself off, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Drops of water crawl down his cheeks like tears. He takes a deep breath. His jaw trembles.

Maybe Roy is going on a date with Dick, and that’s why he can’t edit on Tuesday. Good for him. Good for them both. Dick deserves a partner who doesn’t hide in the bathroom looking like they’re about to throw up. Dick deserves someone who never judged him before they got to know him. It makes perfect sense that Dick would choose Roy over—

Jason freezes.  _ Oh my god,  _ he thinks. 

He’s in love with Dick Grayson. 


	5. Chapter 5

Dick is good at the chase.

When his mind is set on something, he goes for it. He chases with efficiency, with clarity, with his whole heart. He chases with known intentions and when he can feel the object in question within his grasp, he offers the best of himself. And if at the end of the chase he finds something other than what he thought, he waves a hand goodbye with gracious defeat, content to continue his life without.

But right now, Dick feels like he ran past something important. He comes to a full stop with no resolution, desperate to figure out what he is truly after.

The chase sits abandoned.

***

Alfred stands on the manor’s steps in anticipation before Dick can step out of his vehicle and traipse the driveway of crushed rocks. They make a soft crunch with each step he takes closer to where the butler waits to greet him.

“Hey, Alf.”

“Master Richard. Do come in. Mister Todd is inside already, but…”

Dick stops. “But what?”

Alfred clasps his hands in front of him and lifts his chin. “He appears to be searching for items he left behind. And packing them away.”

“What?” Dick brushes past Alfred, racing through the foyer, the side hallway to the right of the first floor, and into the depths of the warm kitchen. He finds Jason leaning against the kitchen island, staring at nothing. A canvas tote bag sits behind him, a pastry scraper peeking out with a glean from its clean, unused steel edge. There are no ingredients spread out and Jason wears no apron.

“Hey,” Dick calls out and Jason slowly looks at him, his eyes refocusing in a tired way.

“Hey, yourself.” But Jason’s words hold only a shadow of the fun they used to hold when directed at Dick.

Dick pantomimes normalcy and grabs the apron he favors for their sessions. “What are we making today?”

Jason lets out a long breath. “Well…” he says and then stops.

Dick pulls out mixing bowls just in case.

Jason looks like he wants to say something, but whatever it is the words are hardened and bitter. Dick knows this, watches the way Jason folds his arms across his chest, watches the way he curls in just a bit as he remains leaning against the island’s countertop. Jason takes another deep breath and slumps into a decision. He scrubs a hand against his face, to wake himself up or to close himself off, Dick isn’t sure. He continues to watch Jason make little motions on the surface, small ripples from whatever thrashes inside him. Jason stands up proper and opens the doors to the pantry. He plunges head first into their depths and resurfaces with two yellow packages. They make a crinkly noise in Jason’s hands.

“We’re making ramen today.”

Dick watches Jason toss the bricks of plastic-sealed ramen on the countertop and make his way to the fridge.

“Your lesson is to make instant ramen?"

From the cold depths of the refrigerator, Jason says, "Yes, Dickie, because maybe you should learn to make things for yourself.”

Dick blanches at the words, the presumption. “Excuse me? What the hell, Jason?"

"And I could use some comfort food,” Jason continues, “so for once we're gonna make something because I want it and not because you want to impress someone. And then you have a realistic meal you can make. It’s a win all around." He pulls out some produce: a half-used cabbage, some whole carrots, and a couple sad strands of scallions starting to hang limp with age. They get piled onto the kitchen island and Jason continues his search. He comes back from the pantry with an onion.

Dick pulls the santoku knife from off the wall and waits. He wants to be helpful. He wants to signal that he’s on the precipice of a brand new path, to signal to Jason that he wants to explore this new path with _him_. Instead he stands there waiting with a knife, probably looking like a serial killer.

“Oh, that’ll do,” Jason says and snatches the blade from Dick’s hand, disarming him. He turns his back on Dick again and begins to julienne the onion. When he finishes both halves of the bulb, he does the same to a couple of carrots. 

“What do you want me to do, Jay?”

“Whatever you want, I guess.” Jason moves on to chopping the scallions.

“Look,” Dick tries, “I come to you for instruction. I’d like some instruction if that’s okay.” Dick can hear his voice grow accusatory and he stamps down on the emotions roiling within. Is Jason attempting to ghost him?

“I thought we had a good thing going here,” Dick tries again.

Jason grabs two saucepans from the pot rack. He throws in the julienned onion and carrot into both, then measures an approximation of what Dick can tell is two cups worth of water from the tap into both pans. He puts them on the burners, affixes their lids, and turns the heat up to medium-high. He moves back to the island and takes the knife to a partially used head of cabbage rescued from a crisper drawer. He says nothing to Dick.

“Jason. I’m trying here.”

The man in question sets down the knife. “I don’t know what we had here, Dick.” Then, “Pass me those mixing bowls.”

The bowls are heavy ceramic, with a fluted outside design and a smooth interior webbed with microfractures. Dick sets them down next to Jason’s prep area and watches as the man he has fallen for places fistfuls of chopped cabbage in each bowl. Even now, with his scowl and determined silence, Dick still admires Jason’s form, the ease with which he handles the blade as a tool, the way he can take any forgotten ingredients left to die in some forgotten fridge corner and renew them. The simmering carrot and onion provide a homely aromatic that Dick has come to associate with Jason; with comfort, with realness.

But now?

The lids on the saucepans start to clatter and shake as the steam escapes from whatever lip opening it can find. Jason opens the ramen packets, plucks out the seasoning, and dumps a brick of noodle in each pot, turning the heat down a bit.

Dick rummages through the utensil drawer and pulls out a couple pairs of chopsticks. He walks one set over to Jay without a word and hands it to him. Jason takes one and prods at the noodles in both pots for a couple minutes, Dick watching in habitual silence now. Jason turns off the heat of both burners, opens the tonkotsu seasoning packets, and dumps them in. Then he pours each pot over the mixing bowls with cabbage, scraping every bit of carrot and onion into the soup mix. He carries both bowls to the island and sprinkles a heap of scallions on top before pushing one bowl to Dick.

Dick takes his own pair of chopsticks and grasps a heft of noodle, carrot, onion, and cabbage. He shoves hot comfort in his mouth and lets the flavor medley hit all the right notes. It’s delicious and simple and again Jason has changed Dick’s point of view on something so small in an epically large way.

“You didn’t have a lesson for today, did you?” Dick asks.

“No. This really is my comfort staple though. It’s good, it’s hearty, and it uses up stuff that’s already in your kitchen most likely.”

Dick nods his acknowledgement. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Jason gives a quiet laugh. “It’s no secret, Dickie.” He shakes his head. “Look, just make sure you do stuff yourself, okay? And not always to impress others.”

Dick does and doesn’t understand. “Yeah? I know.”

Jason clutches another bit of ramen, then pauses mid-bite. “I don’t think we should meet any more.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s just, work is getting really busy, and I need to spend more time on content. I can’t just leave it all on my editor. He...He doesn’t deserve that. He’s a good guy.”

Dick stares at Jason, stunned, as Jason continues to eat his warm comfort food. Dick has spent months now in this kitchen, learning to cook, learning to love the stories Jay shares, learning to love the unique words of praise that slip from his lips. Dick has come to love that voice.

Dick doesn’t love what he hears now.

He looks down at his bowl—the white, fire glazed mixing bowl he’d hunted down from a tall cabinet, big enough to hold the bounty of Jason’s cooking—and prods at the contents with his bamboo utensils, gives it a swirl. Nothing makes sense any more. He grabs another mouthful and is relieved that despite everything, the food is warm and delicious and probably would provide some comfort if Dick’s entire world wasn’t collapsing around him.

 _I finally know what I want_ , he thinks, _I made a decision. And this is the outcome?_

“If that’s what you need, Jay,” is the response Dick gives to the man he has fallen in love with, the man who is pulling away.

Their words cease. They eat in a kind of forced quietness, one that is hard to achieve with the food prepared, but they manage to not exchange another word until a finished Jason walks his bowl to the sink and begins to rinse it.

“I’ve got clean up duty, Jay. You cooked.”

Jason gives Dick a nod and walks out.

***

Dick’s emotional future may be in question, but he hasn’t burned enough bridges where he cannot move at all. He has spent good hours on this path, filled with happy memories and heightened emotions. Besides, it deserves a proper burial.

Dick knocks on the door of Roy’s apartment. He makes a fist the shape and size of a heart and beats it against the solid wood door until Roy opens in haste, irritation on his face. The look softens when he sees Dick before him, hand raised in hail. His face must give more away of the inner turmoil wringing his insides because before anyone can say anything else, Roy pulls Dick through the doorway and into a hug. He ushers Dick further into the apartment, where it opens up into a wide living room, a couch untouched and surrounded by recording equipment, cables, and light fixtures.

“Oh,” Dick says. “Sorry, you look busy.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, Birdbrain. Just unboxing some new purchases. My budget increased,” Roy says with a wink. 

“Nice. Yeah. Congratulations. I’ve heard a bit about the show and how well it’s doing.”

“But you look upset. What’s wrong?” Roy sits down on the couch and gestures for Dick to make himself comfortable. It’s a wild fling of the hand and a half-assed shrug. He grabs a twenty-foot cable from near his feet and begins to wind it around his forearm, wrapping loops from the palm of his hand to the back of his elbow, over and over again. He waits.

Dick says, “We’re good friends, right?”

“Yeah, Dick, the best.” He pauses mid-wind to look at Dick directly. “And anything you want to say, I want you to know you can just say it. Whatever it is. No judgement from this guy.”

Dick takes a breath. “Okay. I need your help.”

Roy slowly resumes his cord wrapping as his face morphs into confusion. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m kinda falling for Jason. Like, pretty hard actually. I don’t want to screw it up and he seems angry with me. I just want to offer him something without strings attached so he knows I’m sincere.”

Roy puts down the cable. “Huh. That is not at all where I thought this was going, but my god this made it easier. Okay! Pivoting then! First of all, Dick, good for you and about fucking time, Jesus. Second, what do you mean by offering something without strings?”

“No, no, no, what do _you_ mean by ‘about fucking time’?”

“I mean about fucking time! You two seem like you’d have amazing chemistry together. And now I’m mad that apparently I missed out on your epic meeting or whatever. Did birds sing to rejoice the moment you laid eyes on each other?”

“Don’t make this so difficult, you asshole. And by offering him something I mean that I want to do something nice for Jason without him thinking it’s just to pay off some kind of debt. Because he’s been teaching me how to cook and stuff for awhile now. For you.”

“Wow, Dick, you gotta work on your phrasing cause that is not at all what I was thinking. Wait. Jason was teaching you to cook _for me?_ So this means you _were_ crushing on me! I thought so!”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m amazing. Totally understandable. But if I’m honest, I’m glad that’s not our future.” Roy grasps Dick’s shoulders with both hands and leans in smoothly to get up close and personal. “I think we’d be a shit couple,” he says as seriously as he can muster, but Dick laughs anyways. Roy continues, “I think Jason’s got more of the empathy level you’re seeking in a relationship. I’m but a simple man: hand me some electronics and a soldering iron and I’m good to go.”

Even without a glance around the apartment where equipment lays dead on the floor like Roy’s committed some kind of silicon and copper massacre, Dick knows the truth in his words. He is looking for something more than that where his heart is concerned.

“So help me with Jason. He doesn’t want to see me anymore. I mean, if he’s really not into me, then fine. But I feel like something’s there and I need to know what.”

“Oh, this is classic mopey Jason.”

“And?” Dick prompts.

“And, well, he knows that you’ve been crushing on me, right? So why would he assume you’ve actually developed feelings _for him?_ ”

“Oh shit.”

“Yep.”

“Oh shit! He must think I’m some heartless bastard!”

“Probably.”

“Roy! Not helping!”

“No, I am though! Because if he’s moping it’s because he likes you, too. Believe me. I speak Jason and his weird language of the heart. Had to calibrate _a lot_ over the years.”

“So you think what we have may be mutual?” Dick says this quietly, like a whispered secret or a curse.

Roy winks at him. “I’m betting on it.” Then, more seriously, “And if I could participate in some insider trading, I think you should do something that says exactly what you feel.”

“Do something?”

“Yeah. You know, a gesture. Something that screams you and him unequivocally and isn’t words. Jaybird’s not so great at believing people’s words. So you need to use your actions.”

“You give all your friends bird nicknames?”

“Only the ones I like, Birdbrain.”

Dick smiles.

***

Dick bakes a pie.

He’s thought about this carefully, mulling over Roy’s advice with his own experience he’s collected and had part in these last few months. He’s spent time learning to cook, to bake. He’s learned neat hacks to simplify the intimidating kitchen scene, and learned where one should never skimp. He’s learned searing and roasting and kneading. He’s learned about Jason himself. And he’s learned patience.

Dick is patient in his plan.

He’s learned from Roy about the upgrades he and Jason are making to their YouTube channel. They’ve got enough followers for a bigger budget. That means more expensive equipment. Flashier content. Recipes must be perfect and perfect looking. Dick can hear the stress in Roy’s voice. And they mostly communicate through texts.

He wonders how Jason is handling it all.

After thinking back on their cooking sessions, Dick gravitates to the moments of comfort. He remembers the last meeting, how badly it had gone, and even at the memory Dick’s cortisol spikes and his heart beats a bit faster. _I’m fixing this,_ he tells himself and he takes a breath. He knows now what it had looked like to Jason: a man flirting with another man who is supposed to help him _woo another man._ Yikes. But Jason had made comfort food at that last session. He had made it sound like it was a comfort for himself, but it felt more like a parting gift for Dick. So what would he make for Jason?

It needed to provide comfort. It needed to showcase what he’d learned. And above all, it needed to say with absolute certainty that Dick had made it for Jason. He remembers Jason’s lesson about pies, about how a savory pie could be made. He remembers thinking a savory pie sounded tempting, and then he remembers their last meeting—of Jason insisting Dick cook for himself too. Dick thinks about what flavors sound good to him, and then he knows what he’s going to do.

He shops for pie dishes first. He doesn’t have one. And he examines every dish in three different stores before he settles on a beautiful blue Emil Henry dish with thick wavy edges.

Next, comes the hard part. The pie.

He thinks about Jay and what he knows about him. His brain immediately shunts towards the man’s physique and after a couple of seconds in indulgence, he tamps down on that. He thinks about the man’s hearty laugh when he finally managed to coax it out of him; it had only taken more than a dozen of his own embarrassing stories. He thinks about how when Jay mentioned comfort food he whipped up a meal that was hot, nourishing, and filled to the brim with deliciousness. He searches the seemingly endless reservoir of online recipes until he’s got one. He makes a list and gets to work.

Dick whisks salt and flour together briefly, then mixes fats into the flour mixture to begin the crust. He doesn’t have a pastry blender or a food processor so he settles for violently attacking his concoction with two forks to cut through and squish the solid pats of dairy he’s tossed in. He abandons the forks for his hands, the work strangely therapeutic as he manhandles the ingredients into a crumbly consistency. He squeezes half a lemon into the mixture, then plucks out the lemon pips that escaped during the squeeze, and sprinkles additional water until he can shape the pie dough into a ball. He can still see cold bits of butter and sharp cheddar cheese through the glossy, pale dough binding them all together. He marvels at it all before ultimately cleaving the dough in two so he can wrap them in plastic film. He then shoves aside milk and the cider he bought for this recipe to make room for the dough to chill in the fridge while he moves on to other things.

He mixes the minced pork with salt, pepper, thyme, and sage. So much sage. The herbs are fresh and Dick took the time to snip the sage into bits by scissors. He hopes Jason appreciates the effort. He hopes it tastes decent as well. He cooks the meat and sets it aside, moving on to the next stage:

Chopping five whole goddamn apples.

He does so with care and it takes him a lot longer than he initially budgeted for. He glances at the clock, Roy’s information from that last meeting at the forefront of his mind: _“We’ll be there at four p.m. Both of us. Time for you to show who you’ve chosen after all, Miss Eliza.”_ He works quicker, poaching the chopped apples in cider and brown sugar. _“I’ll be there,” Dick had promised in that moment, and then because he'd been handed a gift, “See you there, Freddy.”_

Dick pulls out the dough, and warms one of them in his hands for a few minutes, then works it over a floured surface with a hastily bought rolling pin. The entire process is frustrating without Jay’s guidance and he wants to tear his hair out, but eventually he wraps a sheet of crust around the pin and transfers it to the brand new—and just washed—pie dish. _“You know this makes Jason Higgins!” Roy had yelled at Dick’s retreating form and Dick had time enough to bark, “It’s your My Fair Lady analogy!” before shutting the door of Roy’s apartment._

He fills the pie with sausage and apple mixed together, rolls out the other ball of pie dough, and seals the pie shut with a crimped edge guided by the pie dish. He had cut out slits in the crust that became the lid then shoved the whole experiment into the hot oven.

He waits. And he hopes.

An hour and a half later, Dick walks through the propped open studio door where a box fan sits positioned to force a breeze inside the filled space. There are ring lights and portable halogen lights and light screens all on tripods. Duct taped cords to the ground guide Dick’s path as he walks into the depths of where Jason and Roy create their magic. He holds the pie dish with a towel, the ceramic still hot, and a tea linen rests over the top to obscure what is surely obvious by smell.

It smells good.

Dick walks closer to the inner-sanctum of the space. Jason scribbles notes onto the top index card in a tall stack. He must just bring the pile to wherever he’s working, never knowing how many he’s going to go through. The thought makes Dick smile. Roy is hunched over a steel chamber housing electrical equipment, a multimeter in his hand giving him readings. He mutters to himself, things like, “hmm seems okay” and “this better have voltage, motherfucker.”

It doesn’t take long for Dick’s steps to catch their attention, and then the smell hits them. Jason cocks his head and narrows his eyes in confusion. Roy tries to hide the growing smile on his face. Roy and Jason stand equidistant apart from each other, from Dick, and he watches Jason sneak looks at Roy, spotting the smile on Roy’s face, and Jason turns to stone. His body language starts to close off, guarding himself from what is about to pass. Jason thinks Dick is here for Roy.

Dick furthers his resolve and walks purposefully to Jason, his eyes never leaving the prize, until he stands before him, with his tea towel covered treasure held up in supplication.

The confused face seeps back into Jason’s features. “What is this?” he asks.

Dick removes the airy towel from the dish with a flourish. "I made you pie.” Then, “A savory one. And also kinda sweet. I couldn't decide and thought it best to not pigeonhole things so early."

"What's the filling?"

"Minced pork and herbs. Chopped apples. I took your advice and went with something that sounded good to me."

Jason nods, surprised, hopeful, then stony faced again. "Ah. I see. Sounds promising. And the crust?"

"I remembered flour, liquid, fat from your lesson and I think it turned out pretty well actually." Dick tilts the pie back and forth like he’s a game show presenter. The pastry is golden and flaky, pinched into a crimp at the sides where it is darker in color.

Jason covers both of Dick’s hands with his own to still the pie waving. He peers closer, inspecting the perfect flaky consistency and breathing deeply. His hands remain in place, warm, strong, and present against Dick’s own. 

"What fat did you use?"

They’re even closer now. Dick has forgotten that Roy exists as he and Jason slowly gravitate closer and closer, two objects caught in a shared orbit. "I mixed fats actually. Half the fat comes from butter. The other half comes from whole fat sharp cheddar cheese that I grated into the mix."

Jason surprises Dick with a laugh. “Really? That sounds delicious. I’m surprised at…” he trails off, withdrawing his support of Dick’s hands, leaving him to bear the burden of the pie alone again. He uses his freed hands to gesture at everything instead of verbally finishing the sentence.

“I think I’m done with surprises,” Dick says.

Jason takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, steeling himself. “What is this?” he asks again, his voice quieter this time as if anticipating disappointment.

“It’s the culmination of us, Jay,” Dick answers. He presses the pie to Jason’s chest, his arms extended. They do not shake. They do not waver. “For you,” he finishes.

Jason reaches back for Dick, leans over the pie, and kisses him on the mouth.

No more surprises indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
